


Meanest Hunk Of Woman That Anybody Ever Seen

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Ben Wa Balls, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Christmas, Drag Queen Mickey Milkovich, Fire fighter Ian Gallagher, Fix-It, If not smut then some good sex, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's Ian and Mickey so it's what you'd expect from these two, Language, Love, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mentions of Suicide Attempt, Milkoviches don't bottom and neither do Gallaghers, Musically talented Mickey Milkovich, New Year's Eve, Supportive Partnership, Thanksgiving, They don't have a history, dads, nothing graphic, supportive family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 54,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: Ian Gallagher takes a night away from the Southside in attempt to find a hook-up in a more accepting part of town.Mickey may be dressed in drag -but I promise this is not a character assassination.------Ian takes a moment to let himself feel this. The sparks still receding from his eyes. His entire body feeling weak and gelatinous. Something he'd love to feel over and over again. Something he needs to feel over and over again. He rolls to his side, watching Mickey breathing beside him for a moment. His pale smooth skin, muscles toned and strong. Stubble along his perfectly carved jawline. Random bruises speckled throughout the map of his body, different stages of healing. Splits in his knuckles looking about three days old. Remembering how those calloused hands felt on his flesh he smiles.------





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I had Jim Croce's Roller Derby Queen stuck in my head all day yesterday. And then I saw an ad on TV for RuPaul's Drag Race and this is what happened in my head.  
> If you've never listened to Jim Croce - do it, it'll make your world a better place.  
> I'm still working on my other fan fiction for these two, this is just a one-shot ficlet that I couldn't get out of my head and thought I could have some fun with. Thanks for reading!  
> Update - this is turning into more than the intended one-shot. Decided it could be a fun story to explore, a little stretch of the imagination for Mickey.

Ian sighs hard and sulks into his beer glass at the bar. He only came here to get away from the Southside for the night, to be openly gay and have a good time. He didn't realize it was drag night until he had already ordered his beer. Not being the kind of guy who can afford to waste something he paid for, he's trying like hell to finish it and get the fuck out without having any encounters with any of these drag weirdos. It's just something he doesn't understand. Ian is gay and Ian wants a man. A man that smells like sweat, has calloused hands and stubble. He doesn't want a man wearing women's clothing, make-up, wigs, and heals. A man who smells like perfume is just not something he's interested in.  
A second beer shows up in front of him and the bartender motions towards the old dude at the end of the bar. Fuck, now he has to be polite and drink this one too. Or at least accept a free drink because there isn't enough beer in the world to make him comfortable in a place like this. He accepts the beer with a tip of his head, but he's not going to shoot any flirtatious smiles or make his way over to the empty stool by the silver fox. He did the old dude thing. It's just not him anymore.  
Someone's on stage singing about falling in love with a roller derby queen. Ian is sinking further into himself and wishing the beer had come in a can so he could just shotgun it and be gone.  
"Nice show tonight Michaela," he hears the bartender speak to the presence that just appeared at his side, "you'll be on vaudeville in no time doll."  
"You're too kind," the voice is clearly male. But Ian doesn't turn. That is, until a feather boa is slid across his face. He sneezes, both hands reaching out to push it away. His head turns and meets the crystal clear blue gaze of a set of eyes he could spent eternity floating on the surface of. But they're framed in glue-on lashes. Blue sparkly eye make-up painted all the way to the expressive brow-line. Milky pale skin and a perfectly painted pink puckered mouth. Lips pressing together thoughtfully as the blue gaze holds his steady for long enough that Ian's breath catches in his throat.  
Then she (he?) turns away. A sexy confident strut, with just the right amount of swivel in her hips. The sparkly light blue dress clinging perfectly to her muscled ass cheeks. A slit in the skirt showing off a gorgeous pair of legs that Ian would love to have wrapped around his hips. If they were hairy, that is. And if she was a he. Or is she a he? Is she even gay? Some of these queens just like to dress in drag, then they go home to their wives.  
He wants to follow her. Pull that long rust-colored wig off, take a washcloth to her face - uh his face. And see what's beneath. But she's sashaying through a door marked 'dressing room'.  
He chugs what's left of his beer and exits into the cool Spring night. What a joke, his hands are shaking as he lights a smoke. Leaning back against the building in the back alley. What would his family think if he brought home a drag queen? He's managed this long to keep his sexuality mostly hidden, not because he's ashamed, but because it's a rough neighborhood. With guys like Terry Milkovich and his group of Neo-Nazi homophobes always around, it's just safer to have a fake girlfriend and keep his sex life behind closed doors.  
When the back door of the club opens, some muffled voices from inside the door and that voice from earlier, "yah see you next week," stepping out into the dimly lit alley, a bag strewn over his broad muscled shoulders. Stopping to light a cigarette, "the fuck you lookin' at carrot-top?" his head turning quickly, clear crystal blues eyes under a pair of risen brows.  
"Um, I..." am not sure. Probably the most beautiful man he's ever seen, "nothing," stuttering and looking towards the opposite side of the alley.  
"Sure, okay," he grunts. Ian's eyes following him to an old beat up Jeep Wrangler that he recognizes...  
"Mickey? Milkovich?" he wonders, unable to hide the shock from his voice.  
The short brunette man is on him immediately, hand clamped on his windpipe, backing him into the wall, "the fuck you just say to me?"  
Letting up on Ian's air supply long enough for him to stutter, "I know you. I mean I..." everyone knows Mickey Milkovich. In one way or another, "I hang out with Mandy. I'm Mandy's boyfriend."  
"Sure, when she ain't fuckin' half the Southside?"  
"Well it's, she's, I'm gay," he admits to only the third person he's ever said those words to, "and she's..."  
"Protecting your ass," his hand slides up from Ian's throat to his chin. Tilting it down somewhat gently to his level, telling him in a low warning growl, "you tell a fuckin' soul about this you'll be in fifty pieces dropped into a vat of acid."  
He believes him, but he can't help the cocky smirk that's rising on his face. He can feel it happening. Practically daring the older boy to kiss him.  
It happens. Warm soft lips mashing against his. His tongue eagerly pushing through Ian's lips and sliding over the entire inside of his mouth. Desperate and aggressive. Exactly what Ian's been searching for and never found in any other lovers. Someone to force through barriers he's built around himself to keep himself safe, someone to reach down deep inside of him and draw out every last bit of self control. Make him reckless and stupid and high as a fuckin' kite. Of course it'd be a fellow closeted Southsider.  
It's a mess of hands and torn clothing. Mouths nipping, kissing, licking. Making everything inside Ian's head messy and disturbing every image he ever had of himself. It isn't until he's pressed chest against the wall and hearing a condom wrapper that he gains his bearings enough to turn around, "wait. I don't bottom," he tells Mickey honestly.  
He snorts a reply, "Milkoviches never bottom."  
"Well maybe Gallaghers never bottom either."  
"You sure about that firecrotch?" his eyebrow is risen in a challenge.  
"No. Not really, but even if I did bottom, I'm too tall for this to work well like this. Um, here. Standing up."  
"You sayin' I'm short?" the condom is being torn off, tossed toward the dumpster.  
"Guess I fucked this up, huh?"  
Pulling his pants back up, "uh huh."  
He sighs as he watches the perfectly muscled chest being covered once again by a t-shirt, "well can I at least bother you for a ride home?"  
"Fuck you," flipping him off as he backs away with an irresistible smirk on his face.  
"Maybe some other time," he calls after him as Mickey's pace picks up, "if you give me a ride home!"  
He watches Mickey situate in the driver seat, lighting another smoke and putting the Jeep in drive. Seemingly changing his mind, jamming it into reverse and coming to a halt in front of Ian, "you gettin' in fuck-face?"  
Butterflies invade his chest as a smile rises and he races around to the passenger side, "let's ride."  
Mickey narrows his eyes at him, shaking his head before steering onto the road leading home. They don't talk on the ride back to the Southside. But it's comfortable silence. No threats, no questions asked, no apologies or teasing.  
When he pulls up to the curb, Ian wants to ask him to come in. He sits for a moment, trying to formulate a sentence in his head. Try, 'wanna come in for a beer?'. Or try, 'wanna come in for a blow job?'. Or maybe even...  
Mickey's beautiful eyes land on his face, "the fuck you waitin' for? A good night kiss?"  
"You wanna fuck?" or that.  
He chews so vigorously on his lower lip that Ian thinks he might bite right through it before wondering as he scans the house, "safe in there?"  
"Yeah. Lip's gone to college, his bedroom door has a lock on it. Fi knows I'm gay."  
He doesn't vocally agree but he kills the engine. Stepping out onto the curb, lighting another smoke. Head tilted back to look skyward for a few puffs before he hands it over to Ian when he halts beside him, "I don't bottom."  
"Neither do I."  
"Okay," he starts walking toward the Gallagher house. A few lights on but not so many that Ian thinks anyone is awake.  
Mickey is on him as soon as he locks the bedroom door. Attacking with passionate heated kisses. Fuck, he could kiss like this for the rest of his life.  
It's three hours and four orgasms a piece later that Mickey collapses on top of him for the final time, "my ass is gonna be sore for a week."  
"Mine too," reaching out to run a hand through dark hair that feels like silk against his fingers.  
Lifting his head to plant a few lazy kisses on Ian's sore mouth before rolling off him and turning his back to make himself comfortable on his side. Facing the closed and locked door.  
Ian takes a moment to let himself feel this. The sparks still receding from his eyes. His entire body feeling weak and gelatinous. Something he'd love to feel over and over again. Something he needs to feel over and over again. He rolls to his side, watching Mickey breathing beside him for a moment. His pale smooth skin, muscles toned and strong. Stubble along his perfectly carved jawline. Random bruises speckled throughout the map of his body, different stages of healing. Splits in his knuckles looking about three days old. Remembering how those calloused hands felt on his flesh he smiles.  
Leaning in now to press against Mickey's warm back. Sliding fingers into the tattooed ones and folding their arms against Mickey's chest. Noticing one tiny sparkling piece of glitter catching the light from the sun starting to rise and peer through the curtains. One tiny piece of glitter on his perfect luminescent skin.  
Ian presses his lips against it, taking a deep heavenly inhale of the smell of his neck. Cologne, sweat, and nicotine.  
The song he listened to earlier sitting at the bar popping into his head, he sings softly against Mick's warm neck, changing the appropriate lyrics, "gonna tell you a story that you won't believe, but I fell in love last Friday evenin', with a guy I met in a bar room dressed like a drag queen."


	2. The Wrong Foot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

The Wrong Foot

Ian wakes a few hours into the afternoon with his face still buried in Mickey’s neck. Taking a deep breath, trailing his fingers down his arm.   
At the touch, a startled Mickey leaps out of bed. Blinking sleep into fog, into confusion as he scrubs at his face with his hands. His breath is coming out half-choked as his eyes dart around the room and finally land on Ian. Unable to decipher the unspoken words in the depth of his gorgeous blue irises, Ian apologizes, unsure of what exactly for, but landing on, “sorry, didn’t meant to startle you.”  
He’s begun to yank on his clothes, his eyes still darting around the room nervously. Ian’s not sure if he’s trying to piece last night back together in his mind, or if he’s trying to figure out exactly who the guy is that he just slept with by scanning over his belongings. He doesn’t remind him it’s his brother’s room. Mickey didn’t seem drunk last night. He didn’t taste like alcohol, maybe a mild hint of whiskey when their lips first met outside the club.   
“Did um,” he clears his throat as Mickey’s back turns, heading towards the locked bedroom door, “did we get off on the wrong foot?” wondering apprehensively. Was Ian the only one who felt last night as if it was the last night of his life? Was he the only one who was instantly addicted to those kisses?  
“No,” his voice is shaky, hand on the doorknob, “no,” gaining strength as his head turns to look directly into Ian’s eyes, “I got off in the wrong ass, that’s all,” blinking hard before he leaves the bedroom in a hurry.  
“What the fuck does that mean?” wondering to himself. He’s not going to out him, he has no desire to out himself and he’s not the one with the homophobic abusive father that is Terry Milkovich. Every one in the Southside knows Terry and his crew of assholes, and no one really has any desire to cross them.   
Mickey must be deep in the closet if Mandy doesn’t even know he’s gay. His own sister. And she would have told Ian, wouldn’t she? Or something would have given it away, they’d been friends for years now, and he’d never even laid eyes on Mickey until last night. He’d heard a few things about him. From Mandy and from other neighborhood kids. Mickey is a tough motherfucker and no one fucks with him. He didn’t look so tough in that blue dress last night though.  
Rolling onto his back to look at the ceiling. Wondering if Lip will ever patch the hole in the drywall or if Ian should just do it this weekend.   
“What the fuck Ian?” Fiona’s voice startles him from the open doorway, “you have an orgy in here or something? Jesus, better get this mess cleaned up before Lip is home again.”  
“Yeah,” he sighs, turning his head lazily to eye his older sister, “I will.”  
She leans in like she has a secret to tell him, but instead she wonders in a whisper, “was that a Milkovich?”  
He nods slowly. His older sister knows every little secret he has, even the ones he doesn’t tell her aloud. No sense in trying to keep this one hidden.  
“Ian,” she sighs heavily, “we don’t get involved with Milkoviches.”  
“Mandy,” he retorts.  
“Yeah well she’s different. She’s been good for you, but the Milkovich boys are…”  
“I know. I know. Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure he won’t be coming back anyway.”  
Her glare softens a little at the tone of his voice, taking note of the turmoil he’s feeling, “okay. Well, clean this mess up and get dressed. You’re late on your meds already. Breakfast is long gone. Lunch is mostly gone. I’ve got a shift tonight, so you’re the adult.”  
“Got it.”  
When she doesn’t leave right away he nods at her. Watching her face, his left hand absently tapping a rhythm on his ribs. He’s not about to admit to himself that last night was the first time he felt something. He felt something real, and strong, and palpable. He saw the sparks and he felt the lightning scorching his soul. He felt the man’s hands on his body, his soft bare flesh under his own fingertips. He felt it, the first time he’s felt anything since…  
He won’t admit that to himself. And he certainly won’t admit that to his sister. So instead he nods, reassuring her, “got it. Getting dressed, cleaning up, eating, taking meds. I’m the adult.”  
“Yes you are,” she nods at him before disappearing down the hall, hollering something down the stairs to Carl.   
He pulls himself to sitting. Feeling fully exhausted and wanting to just lie here all day. He doesn’t want to deal with his three younger siblings. All their fucking noise. All they are is noise. Rubbing at his temples. He only had two beers last night.   
Fuck, Fiona was right, it does look like someone had an orgy in here. He doesn’t remember knocking shit off the dresser. Or leaving used condoms littering the room. All he remembers is the heat of those kisses. The feel of his hands. The feeling like everything was finally okay. Like he was alive. He wasn’t just skimming the surface of living, he was truly living. Even if it was only those fickle moments, it felt like life.   
He wants to just say fuck it about his meds. He wants to flush them and let himself see all the colors, even if they’re too vivid and too bright and he can’t sort them out in his mind. He wants to feel all the emotions, even if they’re too light and too heavy. If they’re too real and too hard to grasp all at the same time. He wants to think without the fog layering his mind.   
But then he might steal an airplane, film a porno, strip in a gay nightclub, steal his boyfriend’s baby. And then he’d get the looks. He’d get the looks like there’s something deeply and irreversibly wrong with him. Like they can’t trust him because it’s only a matter of time before he goes off the rails again. And he’d get the comments - that’s a Monica move. Or - it was only a matter of time before you and Austin would turn into Frank and Monica.  
Or he might attempt suicide again.   
Fuck. He gets it. He knows they’re not trying to fix him. They’re trying to keep him stable and keep him alive. If he could just convince himself it was worth it to stay alive.   
He is laying on the landing strip, watching a plane coming in. Landing gear out. Slowly descending towards him as he lays still. Waiting.   
“Fuck,” he moves. He has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not sure if I'll roll with this story or not. It feels like it could be really hard to create their relationship without their history together. But for the sake of this, I'll keep some of the history in place we'll just pretend it happened with other people. I think some of the more important pieces of them as individuals came from their story together, built a lot of their character traits. Obviously this will be a stretch of the imagination for Mickey since the whole basis is him as a drag queen.   
> And of course, I'll be playing with the histories of some other Shameless characters that would play roles in this story.


	3. Southside Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mickey, you may be trash, but we love you so much.

Southside Trash

His hand is shaking as he raises the cigarette to his lips. Taking a long drag, letting the smoke roll slowly out his nostrils as he lowers himself to the porch step. Dampness seeping through his jeans immediately. He can hear his father in the house at his back, yelling about the place being a dump and it better be fucking clean by the time he gets back from his run this afternoon.  
Fuck, he’s supposed to go on this one. Fuck, taking another slow drag. Watching a car go by on the rain dampened street. The things he wants, and things he has to do in order to survive, they’ll never meet in the middle. He’ll always be a piece of Southside trash no matter how much make-up and glitter he layers over his hard-shelled exterior. You can dress a bag of garbage up however you want, but it’s still just fucking garbage.  
Fuck, he didn’t feel like garbage last night. When those pretty green eyes landed on him at the bar. And stayed on him for the rest of the night. When he woke up this morning encircled in his long, pale, freckled arms; he wanted nothing more than to stay there. But the things he wants, well those are the things he’ll never have.   
“Fuck it,” he gets to his feet, stubbing his cigarette out on the porch rail and entering the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seem like something that could be fun to explore? Let me know if you'd keep reading.


	4. No Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversation between Ian and Mandy.
> 
> I think I've got enough mapped out in my head to carry on with this!

No Judgement

“Can I tell you something and you promise not to judge?”  
She rolls her eyes towards him, propping her feet up on the coffee table, “have I ever judged you before?”  
“I think everybody judged me when I took off joyriding with Natalie.”  
Her bony elbow jabs hard into his ribs, “Pity. Party of one, your table it ready,” her lips half raised into a smirk.  
“I’m serious.”  
“So am I,” Mandy leans forward to reach for the bong off the table, “I’ve done a whole lot of stupid shit too. I have no room to judge.”  
He studies her blue eyes for a moment, noting the differences from her brother’s. They’re as beautiful, but not as devastatingly blue. He sighs, “I slept with a drag queen last night.”  
Disbelief rises in those eyes for a moment before she covers her giggle with her hands, “you? Ian Gallagher, lover of manly men who lack personal hygiene? Have dirt under their nails and smell like sweat? Please, you only like dating guys that can manhandle your giant self,” she rolls her eyes again, “I don’t believe you.”  
“He was. I mean he was in drag when I met him. But he was just himself when I left with him. And he was… he was, fuck he was perfect. And now I can’t stop thinking about him. But I’m sure he doesn’t want me.”  
“Good god Ian, enough pity. Who wouldn’t want you?”  
“Everybody who knows me,” he can’t help it when his eyes mist. Blinking it away hard, trying to understand where he went wrong with Mickey last night.  
“That is nowhere near true,” her skinny fingers grip down on his hands, “you look really fucking tired. How was the sex?”  
“Incredible.”  
“Then you have a sex hangover. Sit on it for a few days before you call him. Or her,” a wicked smile rises on her face.  
“Him,” he assures her, “I don’t have his number.”  
“Well if you’re still obsessing over him in a few days then go back to where you met him. If he was dressed in drag then it can’t be that hard to track him down,” she winks.  
It’d be so easy, so easy to ask her for his number. Right now. He studies her face, wondering how much she knows about her own brother. Deciding against it, starting off with Mickey by sharing his secret with his own family doesn’t seem like good idea.  
“Oh I’m sleeping over by the way,” she tells him nonchalantly, “I don’t feel like driving all the way back to my apartment tonight.”  
That’s probably a good thing. Having her here to distract him from his own thoughts. He nods, stretching his arm out across the couch behind her, the invitation she needs to settle in against his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandy deserved more than what the show gave her. I haven't put much into a plot for her at this point, not sure if she'll need one, but we'll just assume she worked her way out of her dad's house, maybe she's got a decent job and is taking night classes or something.  
> With Ian, he's had a Mickey-type relationship with 'Austin', he'll talk more about this with Mickey in later chapters. But we're catching him at a time when he's trying to come to terms with his disorder and is feeling a little insecure and maybe a little worthless but with the right support he'll make his way.


	5. We Don't Get To Be Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaela entertaining the crowd.

We Don’t Get To Be Happy  
Exactly one week from when he met him, on the exact same barstool. This time he got here earlier. He ordered his beer and has been taking his time sipping it. Deflecting the advances of other men here. He doesn’t want other men. He wants that drag queen, that one in the floor length blue sparkly gown. With high heals and pantyhose. With lipstick and eyeshadow. Fake lashes and glue-on nails. That one that is taking to the stage. Being announced by a very flamboyant man with a flourish of his hand. The host is giving a brief overview of Michaela’s talents, her likes and dislikes, and the fact that she’s single and always ready to mingle.  
It sends a wave of frustration through Ian’s core. Not that he thought they were dating, but if Mickey wasn’t seeing anyone, then why had he run off so fast last weekend? Why had he acted like it was such a mistake to be with Ian?  
He’s smiling as he sashays over to the piano. Taking his seat, with a delicate hand he starts playing the piano as if it’s just breathing. Singing a hauntingly beautiful song that Ian’s never heard.  
“Limb by limb and tooth by tooth. Stirring up inside of me every day, every hour. Wish that I was bulletproof.”  
It’s rolling down Ian’s spine, raising goosebumps on his arms. The entire bar is silent, hanging on Mickey’s every word. Every single eye in the room is watching him. He’s beautiful, every single part of him. His voice is incredible, he seems completely at ease being the center of attention, completely himself sitting at a piano. He’s not some Southside thug when he’s here. He’s Michaela, who can sing like a bird and play the piano with all her heart. And no one would make fun of her for it. In fact, everyone is in awe of it. Something that would never happen in their neighborhood.  
Ian’s body is moving without him telling it to. He’s risen from the barstool. Taking a few steps closer to the stage. He’s not the only one in the place doing it. The closer he gets the more he feels it. The tingles racing through his core at every single word coming out of Michaela’s beautiful mouth. Hair on his arms standing on end.  
He feels every word slowly climbing across the air, he feels it to his very core. Stirring butterflies and a horrible aching feeling like he’s never felt before.  
There’s only a short pause before she shifts gears, smiling genuinely as she easily plays into a new song.  
And just as quickly as the spell was cast, it’s nearly broken.  
Jesus Christ, she’s talented. She sings her way through four songs, each very different from one another. And each one rises completely different emotions from the crowd. By the time she’s done with the last upbeat one that Ian doesn’t recognize, the entire crowd is huddled around the stage. As close as they can possibly get. Applauding for more when she’s finished.  
She’s curtseying and saying, “you’re too kind,” as she scans the crowd appreciatively.  
Ian’s heart leaps to his throat when her ocean blue eyes land on him. Disbelief rises, giving way quickly when she glares at him before turning to leave the stage. Every single person in the crowd seems to want to talk to her. And suddenly it feels like there a million people standing between Ian and Michaela. All he wants to do is get to her. Get over there and tell her. Tell her what? How talented she is? How beautiful she looks? Fuck, that’s the last shit a Southside thug wants to hear. But Michaela isn’t a Southside thug. And she’s smiling, beaming as people in this bar are laying compliments on her. So what could Ian possibly say that would matter right now? Fuck, I stalked you here so I could see you again. So I could tell you it wasn’t the wrong ass you got off in. Your secret is safe with me. I have enough secrets of my own to keep, I can keep yours too. Fuck, secrets are a part of Southside life. Digging up dead bodies in the backyard. Forging wills. Stealing an old dead woman from the morgue. And that was all just in a matter of weeks. He could keep listing the Gallagher family secrets for days.  
“Mick…”  
“Don’t,” shoving past him to the bar. Taking two shots of whiskey in quick succession before sauntering over to the dressing room. Nodding and smiling at the bar patrons on her way past them.  
“What the fuck?” mumbling to himself, keeping his eye on the door. What now? Go in while she’s changing? While the clock is striking midnight and Cinderella is leaving the ball. Peeling off the fake lashes, fake nails, sparkly dress, wiping off the perfected make-up and becoming Mickey once again. A guy who runs drugs and guns for his father. A guy who will easily hand out a beating to a customer who doesn’t pay on time. A guy who drinks too much and smokes too much and curses too much. A guy who doesn’t sing or play piano.  
Shit. He gets it. This world, this is a different world. The two can’t crossover and he just crossed himself over by showing up here unannounced.  
He makes his way out the back door of the bar. Shrugging into his spring jacket as a cool breeze swirls down the alley. He scans for Mickey’s Jeep, finding it and settling against the wall near it. He’s not going to force himself into both sides of Mickey’s life, but he’s not going to just give up either. What he felt last weekend, he couldn’t have been the only one. There was no way.  
“What the fuck you doin’ here Gallagher?” but he doesn’t sound angry. Just resigned.  
“I, um,” should have practiced something while I was waiting, “I, well, I…”  
“Spit it out mumbles,” eyebrows rising towards his hairline as his hand reappears from his pocket with his keys.  
“I just wanted to see you again. It’s just that… I mean, last weekend, it was…” why is he turning into such a bumbling idiot every time those eyes land on him, “last weekend, it was fun, right? And I just, I just…”  
“Thought we’d come out of the closet holding fuckin’ hands and ride off into the rainbow together?” he jerks the backdoor open and shoves his bag in, jamming it under the seat with a grunt.  
“No. No, I just…”  
Mickey cocks his head towards the door of the club. Nodding at an older man who is making his way out, bag slung over his narrow shoulders, “nice show tonight,” smiling towards Mick.  
“Yeah, you too,” pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, “see ya next week.”  
Nod, “indeed,” with a flourish of his hand, disappearing around the corner of the building.  
“Darren. He goes home to his wife and twelve year old daughter. Wife doesn’t know about this,” he sighs, leaning back against his Jeep, eyes closing while he grinds his forefinger and thumb against his lids, “that’s gonna be me one day.”  
“Doesn’t have to be,” Ian tries.  
He gets a snort in response. His head turning to look at him like there’s no fucking way it won’t be.  
“I mean, I know who your dad is and all that. I just, it’s just that, I mean someday,” he shrugs. Once again wondering why his words are so failing him tonight. He sounds like a fucking six year old, “and you won’t always live in the Southside. I mean, there’s plenty of…”  
“Oh you know do ya? You know who my dad is. You sure about that?”  
“No. I mean, I,” fuck, Ian. Find some words. And use them, “fuck,” or that.  
At least amusement rises in his eyes for a moment, “fuckin’ Einstein over here.”  
“Fuck you,” reaching for the lit cigarette. Mickey waves his free hand in the air between them, forcing Ian’s back before he takes another drag and then passes it over.  
Silence for a moment as he scans Ian’s face. Chewing on his lower lip gently, his eyes are soft, face open when he admits, “people like us, we don’t get to be happy. You gotta know that by now.”  
“Oh I know it,” he sighs. He knows it all too well. Even if he was comfortable living as an openly gay man, he’s still bipolar. And he’ll always be bipolar. He’s not a catch. Not anymore, “but,” he takes another drag, passing the cigarette back over. A flush of heat rising in his chest as his fingers brush against Mickey’s tattooed ones, “doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun nights to break up the monotony of unhappiness.”  
His eyebrow quirks and he smiles, that confident, borderline cocky smile that makes Ian want to rip off his clothes. Jerking his head toward the Jeep, once inside and moving down the road towards the Southside, he announces, “you’re gonna pound the shit out of me tonight Gallagher. In a good way.”  
“Oh yeah? You gonna be my bitch now or what? I thought Milkoviches don’t bottom.”  
“Liking what I like don’t make me a bitch. Milkoviches aren’t queer either. But look at me prancing around in a fuckin’ dress and high heels. Pretty fuckin’ queer.”  
Ian laughs, “that is pretty fuckin’ queer,” he waits until Mickey’s smile fades before he wonders, “where’d you learn to play piano like that?”  
The sigh is heavy, sadness creeping into his voice when he admits, “my mom. She used to take Mandy and me down to the music store. She’d break in, we’d spend every Friday and Saturday night playing every instrument in the place. And she’d sing. She was only keeping us away from Terry, knowing those were the worst nights for his drinking. But,” his hand rises, rubbing across his nose, seemingly jarring him back into his own skin, shutting down his openness, “she’s dead now. So, whatever,” jamming the Jeep into park across the street from the Gallagher house.  
Why didn’t Mandy ever say anything about their mom? Or her own musical talents? Never a single mention of her, he just assumed she was never around. Maybe ran out on Terry when the kids were little or something.  
He wants to ask more, he wants to get Mickey’s entire life story out of him. But when his head turns and that brow lifts, all he can process is how much he wants to feel that mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is Radiohead's "Bulletproof... I wish I was". It feels fitting for Mickey, though vulnerable but I think behind a piano and dressed in drag would give him the space to be vulnerable. Some of that freedom he feels as Michaela will also make him more open in conversation with Ian.


	6. Pale And Alien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning after.

Pale And Alien

He startles awake when he feels movement at his back. Jolting to sitting, along the way his head makes jarring contact with another head.  
“Fuck,” rubbing at the site of impact.  
“Shit, sorry,” climbing out of bed from behind him, “didn’t meant to startle you. Really gotta piss.”  
He watches as the gangly redhead jumps into his boxers on the way to unlock the bedroom door and walk out. When it’s pulled shut behind him Mickey gets up and dresses. Standing in the middle of the room for a moment to take in his surroundings. Looks like a straight guy’s room. A straight guy who smokes a lot of pot. And needs to figure out how to mud drywall.   
“Hey, sorry,” door latching shut once more. But not locking.   
Fuck. Morning after. All disheveled and awkward. He should have gotten up earlier and left before this ginger idiot woke up. He flinches when he hears a chick yelling from downstairs. Something about the orange juice being empty and put back in the fridge.  
“Just my sister,” big red tells him.   
He watches as the kid steps into his jeans. Guy’s got a hot body. He’ll give him that. And he ain’t afraid to eat some ass. Or deep throat a cock. Fuck, that was good, “fuck’s your first name?” blurting suddenly.   
“Ian,” he laughs, completely un-offended. ‘Parrently he ain’t a stranger to one-night-stands. Or two-night-stands. Fuckever it is, “I’ll walk you out. Unless you wanna stay for breakfast.”  
“The fuck would I do that for?”  
“Oh ‘cause Fi makes the best fucking pancakes.”  
“Pancakes. Fuck that. Sirloin steak, two over-easies, bacon, and hash-browns.”  
“I’m sold. Where we goin’?” as he pulls a shirt over his head.  
“I didn’t say ‘we’ Gallagher.” crossing his arms over his chest. No fuckin’ way he’s going to be seen in public with this kid. Not when he feels like he can barely control his own hands.  
“Oh,” his expression drops, “yeah. That’s, um, that’s… I get it.”  
Fuck, he’s not good at rejection. Fuck, “I mean not today. It’s just not a good day. I got too much shit to do.”  
“Oh,” he shrugs, shoulders winding up so high they nearly bury his ears, “maybe some other time?”  
“Yeah. Maybe,” maybe like never. Fuck, “C’mere,” jerking his head at the ridiculous ginger.  
A smile rises, kind of childish and Mickey would never admit it, but it makes his heart beat hard in his ears as he steps in, leaning down to Mickey’s lips. Fuck, this guy kisses every single time like it’s the last time he’ll kiss. Desperate, passionate. It’s more like he’s trying to devour Mickey than kiss him. But Mickey thinks that’s pretty fuckin’ hot. His fingers dart out, latching onto the green t-shirt, yanking him closer. The other hand pressing hard into the back of his neck. Fuck, this is going to turn into a two-night-and-one-morning stand.   
Fuck, fuck. Fuck. The clothes come off easy. The door locks quickly and he can’t stop himself. He can’t control it. Any of it. His hands. His mouth. All of it. Every single part of his body, he has lost complete control of. All it took was a dopey childish smile and a fear of rejection and he’s back in it. Right in the thick of it. The sweating, the groping, the panting, the grunting. He’s right in it. And fuck, it feels good.   
Damn it. Fuckin’ redheads. All pale and alien looking. What the fuck?   
And the worst part about it, the worst part, is when it’s over and he’s pulling on his jeans again, he looks at the fuckin’ redhead and says, “let’s go get some fuckin’ breakfast then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A date? This soon?!


	7. Dealbreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep, it's a date!

Dealbreaker

He’s a little bit slumped in the booth at the diner. It’s really irritating the hell out of Mickey. Why the fuck’s this kid so uncomfortable in his own skin? It’s like he just wants to walk through life without anyone noticing him. Sure, Mickey was always tiptoeing around his own house, trying to get by unnoticed by his father and his wife. But that was different. He built up a facade of cockiness and a confident strut to convince the world he was tough and nothing could get passed his suit of armor. But this fuckin’ kid. He’s so fuckin’ tall and built like a fuckin’ Greek statue or some shit, but he keeps crumbling in at the shoulders. Like he wants to hide all that.   
He stood by the front door and overheard big red telling his sister he was going out with a friend for breakfast. He overheard her irritated sigh and then craned his head around the corner just enough to see her handing him a handful of pills that he stuffed in his pocket. Now he’s halfway though his meal and his eyes keep darting around the place.   
“The fuck you lookin’ for?” Mickey finally wonders.  
“Um,” pink blush rising, “um, just the bathroom. The bathroom would work,” eyes not leaving his plate.  
“Work for what? Look, you gotta take a shit just go do it. I don’t need a play by play or nothin’.”  
A tiny smile rises, but his eyes don’t. Huff of a laugh before he slides out of the booth. Mickey watches his ass, tight jeans, perfect ass, god it felt so fuckin’ good… Reaching for his coffee to distract himself. Fuck, keep it together.   
So that was either the fastest shit in the world or, “what are the pills for?”  
His physical reaction is like if Mickey had reached across the table and slapped him. Body jerking back against the booth, hand rising to his face. Running along his jaw like he’s rubbing an ache, “um, I, just, it’s…”  
“Look, I ain’t gonna judge you. Just wonderin’ if you’re dying or somethin’ maybe I should make your last months somethin’ to live for,” feeling an eyebrow rise and a smile with it.   
It gets a little grunt of a laugh out of the kid, his hand rubbing along his neck now, landing on the back of it and kneading, “um, it’s…”  
“Spit it out mumbles.”  
“Fuck,” he takes a big swallow of his water, sighing heavily before his eyes finally rise to meet Mick’s. It feels like a kick to the gut, it’s weird, “bipolar I, with psychosis and paranoia.”  
“Huh? Try it in English this time.”  
“Um,” eyes dropping back to his plate, “it’s um, mood swings. Like really intense mood swings. Really high highs and really low lows. Mania is the highs, that’s when the breaks from reality happen. And the paranoia. Euphoria. Um, hyper-sexuality. Like stupid, just really stupid decisions,” his shoulders are collapsing again as he’s talking, “and the depressive side is um, it’s, um, it just hurts. No energy. Loss of appetite. Feeling guilty and um, it’s like, it just, um suicidal thoughts. Just…”  
His hand suddenly and unexpectedly darts out, under the table, grabbing ginger’s knee and giving it a supportive squeeze. It forces his eyes to rise, looking across the table with burning pink cheeks, “sorry,” he mumbles.  
“For what? I still ain’t judgin’. We all got problems. But you take medications, huh?”  
“Yeah. It take meds daily. I um, stick to a schedule as much as I can. It’s like, um, stress mostly that triggers.”  
“Hold on,” he interrupts, “stop with all the um, like, it’s… fuckin’ spit it out.”  
His cheeks flush bright red but he half smiles, “so I work out daily, get enough sleep at night, stay to a schedule. I live at home still, you know that. My siblings, they help me, you know, call me out on bullshit behavior and stuff. I don’t drink, sometimes a beer or two, but only once a week and never more than two. And your sister,” his eyes linger on Mickey’s, “she’s been really supportive. You know her, she’s not afraid to call anybody out on any bullshit.”  
He snorts a, “yeah,” a flash of a memory. Mandy swinging a hockey stick at her douchey boyfriend after he left her a nice black-eye. Never saw that fucker again. He realizes his fingers are still on the kid’s knee, but for some reason can’t take them back yet, “so it a lifelong thing?”  
“Yeah. Pretty much. My mom, that’s where it came from. She never medicated so she was always in and out of our lives. She died last year. I, um, I’ve done some really stupid fuckin’ things and blamed them on the disorder, but I guess I just decided I didn’t want to end up like her. Having six kids that I don’t take care of, and a life that I don’t remember, always doing drugs and taking risks with my health. Or end up starting a religious movement or something crazy,” he half smiles.  
“Is that a thing? Religious stuff?”  
“No. I mean religious visions and shit like that have been effects sometimes of manic episodes with psychosis. But not me. No religious delusions for me.”  
Silence lingers for a moment while Mickey lets it settle in his mind. He’s not sure what this kid has done to him, but he feels something he hasn’t felt in a long fucking time every time he looks in his eyes.   
“Um, dealbreaker?” he wonders quietly.  
“Huh? We make a deal firecrotch? Can’t break it if you didn’t make one.”  
Smile. A sweet innocent smile on his face and Mickey feels his long skinny fingers clamping down on top of his own. Sending a shot of warmth flaring through his chest. It’s risky, sitting here in a fucking diner in the Southside, holding hands under the table. But it’s a risk he’s willing to take right now. He gets a feeling this kid isn’t going to force him out of the closet. He’s still mostly in it himself it seems.   
“So here’s what I don’t get, you’re Mandy’s brother. I’ve known Mandy for, well pretty much forever. We’ve been friends since high school. So how’s it possible we’ve never crossed paths? Like in school or something at least.”  
“First off, Mandy never lets you set foot in our house, does she?”  
“No but…”  
“And I didn’t go to school.”  
“Huh? You must have at some point, even like elementary school or something.”  
“No, well, not for long. I got kicked out.”  
“What? How do you get kicked out of public school? Especially around here?”  
“Yeah well turns out when you’re eight and you kick the ass of the principal’s kid, and they search your backpack and find a shiv and a bag of weed; they ain’t so much on second chances.”  
“Principal Tucker? Like Randy Tucker - that kid’s a fucking brute. And like way older than us. Wait how old are you?”  
“Yeah he was in like sixth grade or somethin’. Twenty-one. Two years older than Mandy.”  
“Wasn’t he all-state linebacker or something?”  
“Sure, I don’t know. He hits like an old arthritic lady though.”  
“An old arthritic lady,” the kids laughs. It is dopey as fuck. But Mickey kinda likes it.   
“Alright,” he reaches for his jacket from the booth beside him, “c’mon let’s get the fuck outta here.”  
“Where we going?” eager and full of hope.  
“Old arthritic Ms Bodnar has a piano she lets me practice on if I do the handyman shit around her house.”  
Jesus, that fuckin’ smile. It radiates so much fuckin’ light. It’s ridiculous. And fuckin’ gorgeous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things here:
> 
> I'm making the Gallaghers more supportive of each other than canon at this point, I liked them a whole lot better when they still resembled a family. I'm also making Ian more accepting of his diagnosis, and more willing to talk about it. 
> 
> The ages of the familiar characters will be changed for the sake of this story, I had trouble trying to figure out anyone's ages anymore by like season five anyway. So I'm just going to do what I want.
> 
> And I'm trying to keep Mickey as close to our Mickey as I can, obviously he's going to be different in a lot of ways but as long as I stay true to his most cherished character traits then I'm happy.


	8. The Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relationship strength test #1

The Abyss

He perches on the stool next to Mickey at the vanity in the dressing room. Watching in awe as he paints the make-up on his face with a delicate hand. He told him he could sit here if he was silent. But it’s really hard to be silent. These last two months have been so fucking incredible. Ian keeps waiting for the ground to fall out from beneath his feet, for Mickey to turn and run away as fast as he possibly can, but so far he hasn’t. And now he’s opening up, letting him step into this side of his life. Fully immerse himself in it. As long as he’s quiet, that is.   
His eyes wander to the photo that’s shoved between the mirror and the frame. Holy shit, the woman is an exact reflection of Michaela. Only without the rust colored wig. The hair is raven and the eyes are that incredible blue that Ian has been floating on for two months now. She’s striking a dramatic pose with a long cigarette holder pinched between her fingers. The smoke of the cigarette rising skyward in a snaky line. Her lips half-smiling, half-laughing. Leg’s crossed at the knee, leaning forward. She almost looks like she’s about to share a secret, something that she finds hilarious and wants you to be a part of. And suddenly Ian wants to be a part of it, “that your mom?”  
“Yeah,” his eyes flicker from his task at hand to the photo.  
“Holy shit, she’s beautiful.”  
“Yeah. Shut the fuck up.”  
“Sorry,” whispering it. Watching as he painstakingly places the fake lashes on his lids.   
Ian is baffled. Stunned. Half stupid with wonder. How is it possible that Mickey, Southside thug Mickey, who is by all rights a gorgeous man - how is it possible that he can also make such a beautiful fucking woman? And how is it possible that Ian is attracted to both versions? He’s never been attracted to anything feminine before. He’s never been attracted to flamboyant gay men. He’s never wanted a well-groomed, soft-handed, soft-spoken man. It’s always been men. Men with body hair and deep voices. Men who don’t spend hours grooming and primping. But here, sitting here watching this. This routine Mickey goes through every single Friday to become Michaela, it’s seriously turning him the fuck on. He wants nothing more than to lift Mickey onto the vanity table and fuck the hell out of him. Even with that short skirted ruby red sequined dress on. What he can’t figure out though, is where is Mickey’s junk? How’d he hide it in that dress? Fuck, if he could see the outline of Mickey’s manhood bulging against that red shiny skirt, he’d be losing it right now. He’s practically losing it right now without seeing the bulge. Fuck, that bulge. He swallows hard, have some self-restraint Ian.   
“Jesus, fuck, Mick,” he breathes when he puts the finishing touches on and looks over at Ian. Fuck, it’s not working. The whole self-restraint thing. It’s not working. And now he’s leaning in, pressing his lips roughly against Michaela’s. Jabbing his tongue into her mouth and tasting her. She still tastes like Mickey. And she still smells like Mickey. But she looks like a fucking queen. Like a real live queen. She kisses like Mickey though. Oh fuck, this is way too much. This is…  
Pulling back with a quick, rough cheek tap, “now I gotta redo my lips. You better back the fuck up tough guy, I really don’t need wood in these tight fuckin’ underdrawers.”  
“Okay,” breathlessly, taking the chance just once more, before he gets up, before he repaints his lips, to kiss him. Just once. Just an easy restrained kiss. Like a good luck token or something. Leaning forehead to forehead for just a breath, “see you out there gorgeous.”  
“Gorgeous,” he hears Mickey’s voice and presence clear as fucking day when he snorts out a, “fuck you Gallagher,” behind him on his way out the door.  
“Later,” he promises with a wink over his shoulder as the door swings shut.  
Religious delusions aren’t his thing, he knows that, but he’s seriously starting to wonder when Michaela takes the stage tonight. She’s real, he knows she’s real because the entire place is responding to her presence. And her talent. Raw and beautiful talent. Mickey let Ian tag along a few times now to Ms Bodnar’s. The old lady is a riot. And she gets up and shuffles with her little bent-over arthritic frame, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth along with the beat of the piano as Mickey plays song after song that she requests.   
Fuck, the guy can play anything. And sing anything. Michaela can too. She sounds like an angel. And her stage presence is undeniable. Her flirty expressions randomly thrown out at the crowd, her cocked brow with glittery make-up painted to the arch of it. The brows drawn darker and thicker for the effect.   
Religious delusions are not his thing. But he is nearly certain he’s having one right now. He’s nearly certain he’s having one in the alley out back when the show is over and the make-up is gone, and the lights are out, and the wig is tucked away; and it’s Mickey. It’s clearly and undeniably Mickey with his cocky smirk and his tattooed knuckles backing Ian against the wall. Mashing lip to lip, crashing tongue to tongue, grasping fist to shirt. Not waiting. Not waiting until they get home. Tearing at clothes, snapping his belt out of the loops and turning around. Pants down, hands on the edge of his Jeep, leaning forward. Making the offering.   
Fuck, Mick. Fuck, this is too much. I’m losing my fucking mind back here. I can’t even…  
His hands are shaky when he reaches for those hips. Those perfect hips that feel just bony enough against his palms. That incredibly fleshy but solid ass. It’s too much. It’s overwhelming just how gorgeous one person can be. His face contacts the back of his neck, whispering the dreaded words, “I don’t have a condom.”  
“Fuck if I care,” he’s breathy already. Head turning to nuzzle Ian’s, lips pressing eagerly against his as soon as he lifts out of his neck.  
Fuck, fuck. He can’t deny it. He can’t stop it, he’ll have to use spit, but it’s not like either one of them are stranger to it. It’s not ideal, but fuck. Fuck, this ass. This ass. Leaving Mickey’s lips for long enough to lean in, burying his face between those incredible cheeks. Just long enough to draw a groan out of Mickey’s mouth. His hips bucking, arching back against Ian’s face as he slides a finger in. Quick, it has to be quick, but he can’t do this without at least warming him up a little. Not as much as he wants to, not as much as he loves to, but enough that it won’t sting too terribly. Two fingers and good tongue twirl before Mickey gasps, “okay. Okay, go. Now.”  
“Fuck,” his breath catches in his throat, heart beating madly in his ears as he guides himself inside. Without the rubber casing it’s, “fuck. It’s too much. I can’t…” he hears himself blubber against Mickey’s neck.  
Feeling Mickey’s rough calloused fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist, guiding his hand to his cock. Hard and throbbing against Ian’s palm.   
“It’s too much,” he repeats, words getting lost in the heat of Mickey’s body against his face. The feel of his ribcage as a breath shudders through his body, “too much.”  
He feels a weird fucking mixture of fear, awe, and intense joy building and swirling in his chest as he thrusts into Mickey’s body. And he feels Mickey’s body jolt a little. Like he’s been struck by lightening. He’s never felt this man without a rubber. They’ve been safe about sex, not really disclosing any past couplings. They’ve not proclaimed exclusivity. But Jesus Christ if Ian cares right now. Ian’s mind is a swirling galaxy of intense emotions and stimulation. He’s thrusting against Mickey again and Mickey is grunting and cursing under his breath. His hand finding the Jeep again, pushing his ass further back against Ian. Ian’s hand is clenched around his cock, but he’s lost all feeling his fingertips and he’s certain he’s not even stroking it. He’s doing nothing more than grasping it while he thrusts once more and feels the pulses of an orgasm raking through Mickey’s rigid body while his follows suit.   
“Fuck,” panting as he loses his legs, shaking jello legs. Back against the bricks behind him. Everything is building up in his chest. Making it hard to breathe and hard to form a coherent sentence. Or coherent thought. All he can think is, ‘religious delusions aren’t my thing but fuck if I didn’t just touch God’. His palms meet his forehead and the salt of tears stings his cheeks. The heat of a summer night closing in around him, stifling sticky humid heat closing in around him from all sides. The concrete falling away from under him and he’s left on a ledge. Staring into the abyss. The abyss that’s as familiar as it is foreign. Grabbing for him, reaching out from the deepest darkest depths for him. Taking hold of his throat, cutting off his air, reaching into his chest and yanking out his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to go full-blown bipolar episode at any point in this story, because we've seen it enough times. I also don't want to make this a Mickey-saves-Ian piece - because we've seen it. I just want there to be parts of it that are seen and acknowledged. We'll see if Mickey stands by his man and pulls him back from the Abyss or if he turns heel and runs.


	9. Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will he stay?

Too Much

“Holy fuck,” leaning into his hands on the edge of the Jeep. It was fast, it was frenzied but it did the trick. For now. Blood rushing in his ears, heart beating madly against his chest and his eyes blurry as fuck. Fuck, oh well. Bending to grab for his jeans as he catches his breath and some of the rushing subsides, he starts hearing a soft voice, barely above a whisper behind him.  
“Too much. Too much.”  
He’s crumbled on the ground, pants still down to his knees. Face in his hands. Repeating, “too much,” exactly what he whispered against Mick’s ear.   
“What the fuck Gallagher?” finishing with his belt and dropping to his knees in front of him, “what’s up? What’s going on?”  
“It’s too much, it’s just too much,” mumbling into his hands.  
“What is? Hey,” reaching out to touch his hands, gently, just barely skin on skin, “is this panic? Anxiety? What’s going on?” forcing himself to keep his voice calm, “you gotta breathe man. Alright, just breathe for a minute. Okay?”  
What the fuck just happened? This ain’t the first time they’ve fucked. It wasn’t that much different than the other times, a little hurried and passion-driven, but not that different.  
“Hey, let’s breathe alright?” sliding his fingers a little further into Ian’s hands. He wishes he could pry the kid’s face out of his knees. See his eyes to see what they’re doing, if he’s panicked or what the fuck is happening. Is this a normal bipolar thing? Is this some part of the mania? Scrolling though his mind to find the conversations they’ve had about it. Was panic ever brought up? Or anxiety? Sure, anxiety’s gotta be a part of it, right? Anxiety’s a part of like every mental thing, right?  
Keeping one hand on his fingers, the other slides to the back of his neck. He’s sticky with sweat but hell, so is Mickey. Fuck, he should have asked, how does the mania present? What’s the first sign? Or would this be a step into depression? What the fuck? Why didn’t he do some research?  
“Breathe with me big red,” he leans his face closer to the mumbled words that are repeating and repeating, “take a big inhale with me. I’m right here, take a big breath in with me. If you want to picture some place that’s calming or some shit. Let’s do that. We can do that, right? Where do you feel calm, huh? At home?” his hand is squeezing gently on the back of his neck, “when no one’s home and it’s nice and quiet? Or are you actually calm around all that noise? All that Gallagher noise. Fiona yellin’, and Carl askin’ stupid fuckin’ questions nonstop. Debbie screeching about her stupid make-up bag gone missin’. Liam, well, Liam doesn’t say much, does he? Dinner table, all that talkin’. Or does that stop when there’s food on the table? I picture half your family still talkin’ even with their mouths full. You breathing yet ginger?”  
His fingers have started pulsing, making moves towards Mickey’s. Hands turning over, palm to palm.  
“What, like music blasting in the background? Carl probably doesn’t use silverware, does he? Probably have food fights sometimes. Food gets cold while everyone rushes through talkin’ about their fuckin’ day? That how it goes? Or do you all actually sit down, eat like civilized people, use fuckin’ table manners and shit? Take turns doin’ dishes? Fuck, and then it quiets. Sort of. Like people got homework to work on, so there’s some quiet. In the summer, you get that pool set up and wait your like thirty minutes or some shit after you eat before you can swim without pukin’ it all up. Or just risk it? Puke over the edge. That shit really happen? Or it just some old Ms Bodnar tale? I’ve never been in a pool. No idea how to swim.”  
“It’s true,” finally a deep, heavy breath, “you have to wait awhile.”  
“So the old lady isn’t full of shit, huh? All that shit she tell me about sitting too close to the TV, cracking your knuckles, spillin’ salt, ringin’ in your ears, crossin’ your eyes… all that shit true too?”  
A grip, a nice tight one wrapping around Mickey’s wrist. He can hear him breathing now. Full breaths, every third one hitches a little like he’s been crying, but the others are full, “ringing in your ears?”  
“Not mine.”  
“No,” he sighs, a half-hearted laugh, “what happens when your ears ring? Ms Bodnar?”  
“Oh,” sliding the hand from the back of his neck across his jaw, finding his chin, “means someone’s talkin’ about you,” gripping it and lifting his face out of his safe haven. Some tears drying on his cheeks, watery eyes, a distance in them. Like he’s watching Mickey through a few layers of foggy glass. But nothing too crazy, “let’s pull up your fuckin’ pants, huh? Before someone sees you and you end up with a fuckin’ public indecency on your record.”  
“Yeah,” barely a whisper, eye contact faltering.  
The grip on his chin tightens, forcing the eyes back towards his own, “hey, you’re fine, huh? Nothin’ to get all embarrassed about, alright? I mean, I don’t know what the fuck it was, but nothin’ to be embarrassed about.”  
His pretty eyes water, jerking his chin out of Mick’s grip, mumbling, “yeah,” reaching for his pants. His hands are shaking, visibly shaking. It’s making Mickey’s heart hurt. He can’t wrap his head around this guy, the way he’s worked his way into his life and made himself completely at home so quickly, but it fucking hurts to see him hurting.   
He’s silent on the drive home. Staring out the window. At least he’s breathing. Calm and steady. When Mickey stops at the curb, kills the engine, he mumbles, “you don’t have to come in,” face still aimed at the window.  
“Why wouldn’t I come in?” he wonders, a little offended.  
“I, um, well, it’s just…”  
“Spit it out mumbles.”  
“Dealbreaker.”  
“Fuck off with that. I didn’t make a fuckin’ deal with you Gallagher. Why would I pass up on an opportunity to sleep with you?”  
“I, um, probably just going to take a sedative and sleep for twelve hours.”  
“Well then that’s a whole lot of fuckin’ sleepin’ together far as I see it.”  
His head is slow to turn, but it does. Searching Mickey’s face for a level of sincerity. He nods, feeling his eyebrows raised just a little. Daring Ian to tell him to leave. Daring him to tell him he’s not worth it. Or some stupid shit. Like something as little as an anxiety attack or panic attack or some shit could make the things he feels just disappear.  
“Okay,” finally agreeing quietly.   
“Okay. I’m gonna spoon the hell out of you for like eleven of those hours, alright?”  
A half smile, breaking some of the fog out of his eyes, “sure Mick,” knowing full well he’ll be the big spoon for at least ten of those twelve hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course he will!


	10. Empty Pillow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wait, did he stay?

Empty Pillow

He lied. That’s the first thing Ian thinks when he wakes alone. The pillow next to him empty, indented in the shape of Mickey’s head. But Mickey’s gone. He lied. It was a dealbreaker. It was too much. There’s no one out there who can deal with Ian’s shit. A wonderful night together and he ruined it by turning into himself. He reaches for the pillow, pressing it against his face to get the last strong scent of Mickey Milkovich he’ll probably ever get to have. Biting back tears. He’s so fucking tired. He just wants to stay in bed for a week. Or a month. Or the rest of his life.  
“Hey,” but now Fiona is sitting on the empty side of the mattress. Rubbing his bare arm, “how you feelin’?”  
Only response he can muster is a shrug. He wants to tell her to just leave him the hell alone. But he doesn’t have the energy yet for that.  
“Mickey said you were kinda stressed out last night. You took a sedative? You feelin’ manic? Should we call the weekend line for Dr. Thomas?”  
“No. I’ll call Monday,” deep breath through his nose. Nicotine, cologne, sweat. Biting his lip again, but a pathetic little whimper escapes.  
She sighs heavily, her hand still rubbing on his arm. She keeps reminding him every weekend that we don’t get involved with Milkoviches, every time Mickey walks out the door on Saturday mornings, or every time Ian comes home after spending the day with him. The weekends that he’s forbidden from the club, he waits on the porch like an overeager puppy until Mickey pulls up to the curb. But last night, it was like all the walls had come down. He was fully invited to Mickey’s drag life. He got introduced to some of the other queens. He’s starting to understand it. The release, the freedom that Mickey has under all the make-up, hair, and clothes that belong to Michaela. A type of freedom that Mickey has probably never for a single moment had for himself. There was still so much more he wanted to learn. About Mickey. About Michaela. About all of it. Every single aspect of that man. But he let himself get overwhelmed last night. Let the racing race too fucking fast and his thoughts spin out uncontrollably. Fuck, he chased him off.   
“Alright, well,” she’s starting to shift away from him, “I have to get to work. There’s a plate of pancakes left for you. Stay to schedule please Ian,” her lips meet his shoulder gently, “I guess you don’t really have to be the adult since Mickey’s sort of an adult. But I wouldn’t leave him and Carl alone for too long. They’ll probably build a bomb in the basement before noon if you do,” her voice is getting a little more distant, making her way out of the room, “don’t forget to make the kids wear sunscreen if you swim today. And yes, that includes Liam,” she reminds him, pulling the door shut behind her.  
He heard it. He heard all of the words she said. But all he can focus on is the part where Mickey is still here. He’s still here. He didn’t leave.   
This time when tears rise he doesn’t swallow them back. Tears of relief flooding the pillow that still smells like Mickey. He didn’t leave me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a more supportive Fiona than the one we witnessed in later seasons of the show. I'm going to mess with her story along the way too.


	11. Self Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding with the siblings

Self Defense

He made it as far as the chair in the living room. And hasn’t moved since. Listlessly eating his pancakes that have grown cold by now. Carl plunked the plate down in his lap and gave him his pill organizer, then reminded him, “you’ll get diarrhea if you take your pills without eating,” a weird little psychotic glow in his face. The moment Fiona walked out the door he started peppering Mickey with questions about drugs and guns. Kid’s pretty smart. Knows his shit. Reminds him a lot of himself. Hopefully he won’t get stuck in the endless cycle that is Southside life though. Got potential.   
It’s sort of annoying the fuck out of Mickey how slumped over ginger is. How dead his eyes look. And why the fuck Mickey can’t just ignore it and walk out the door. He’s not opposed to wasting a Saturday drinking beer and playing video games with a thirteen year old - or however old this little shit is, but he’d rather spend it with big red. Doing fuck all and having a great time with it. These last few months of spending Saturdays with him have been like a little reprieve from Hell. He’s allowed to be himself. For the first time in such a long fucking time he’s allowed to be himself. One day out of every seven where he doesn’t have to hide anything or hide behind Michaela’s persona to feel accepted. He’ll take those odds. Always lookin’ over his shoulder for his dad and his dad’s friends, but that’s a pretty constant thing anyway. He supposes he should tell ginger a few things, some things about his past. But fuck, past is in the past where it’s supposed to be. Except the parts of it that have carried over to now. Tomorrow. Sundays. Every Sunday a reminder.   
Yanked out of his own mind when Carl shouts for joy, “I got you! I got you again! You really suck at this game man.”  
“Yeah? You wanna real challenge? Let’s go dumpster divin’ for targets, set up a course, and I’ll show you a thing or two ‘bout shootin’ shit.”  
“Really?” the excitement that rises in the kid’s face is blinding, “but Fi says I can’t shoot a real gun ’til I’m fifteen.”  
“Well what Fi don’t know…”  
His head turns towards Ian, who still looks pretty fuckin’ vacant. Maybe they get him out in the fresh(ish) air and make him move a bit, he’ll come around. He shrugs his broad shoulders unenthusiastically.  
“Ian’ll kick both of our asses though,” Carl warns, practically sprinting up the stairs to get some clothes.   
And now he’s alone with him. Staring blankly into space. He walks over and kicks his foot, “that right? You gonna kick both our asses?”  
Another shrug, his food’s nearly gone anyway. That’s progress. He clears his throat, “I need to stay here with Debbie and Liam.”  
“Fuck, you think they ain’t comin’? Girl’s what, fourteen, fifteen? She needs to know how to protect herself too. And the runt can do the dumpster diving. He might even find one of our dads in with the trash. I just gotta run home first, grab a few handguns.”  
His eyes finally rise. Landing and staying. Foggy, but not quite like last night. When Mickey smiles at him, he sort of returns it. He ain’t gonna make him talk about it. Not if he doesn’t want to.  
“Go on, get some clothes on. I’ll meet you back here in like twenty.”  
Slow nod. He’ll take that as a crack in the ice. Smiling on his way out the door, knowing it’ll be risky to head home. Terry’s probably mostly drunk by now and looking for a punching bag. But he can probably sneak in without notice. He’s gotten pretty fuckin’ good at sneaking around that dump.   
Turns out, the runt ain’t very good at dumpster divin’. Good thing Carl’s overjoyed to be sifting through trash in the heat of summer. Kid doesn’t have a sense of smell or something. And zero shame. His grin just keeps getting wider and wider with every treasure he finds in the putrid containers.   
By the time they have a course set up in the old abandoned building at the edge of the neighborhood, ginger looks nearly alive. Movements still a little slow, a little uninspired. But his face is looking more normal. As normal as a pale, freckled alien lookin’ redhead can look in the bright blinding sun of summer.   
“Fiona’s going to kill us,” Debbie reminds them for like the fifteenth time.  
“Yeah, well, so will livin’ in the Southside without knowin’ how to defend yourself.”  
“Shooting isn’t defending, it’s attacking,” she rolls her eyes, hands on her hips in the way only a teenage girl or a drag queen can do it.   
Mickey imitates it, with a perfected eye roll, “you a pacifist or some shit?”  
“No,” she scoffs, “I just think that there are better ways to protect yourself than violence.”  
“Oh okay. Well that’s all well and great in Canada maybe. Or Switzerland. But you’re in a shithole full of violent pieces of shit like my dad. So what happens when something like this happens?” he lunges for her, grabbing her wrists and dragging her towards him.   
Surprise and a hint of fear in her eyes as Carl snickers beside them, “pacify your way out of that Debs.”  
When her head turns towards Ian, looking for him to step in, or give direction maybe; she gets nothing more than a shrug in return, “alright then, I’m just gonna keep dragging you until you lose balance, I’ll drag you on your knees over to my rapist van or some shit. That sound good to you? You scream, I’ll pistol whip you. You’re gonna have to do something here. Real quick, talkin’ ain’t gonna work.”  
He gives her a quick yank towards him, she stumbles, but he doesn’t actually want to put her knees down in the gravel. So he keeps her steady, “gotta act. Act or get beat. Act or get raped. Act or get killed. Up to you.”  
She hesitates so he pulls an unloaded pistol, “now you’re dead,” releasing her wrists with the hand that’s still gripped around them.  
Carl shoves her with a laugh, stepping in front of Mickey, “I want to try.”  
“Alright tough guy, let’s see what you got.”  
It wasn’t actually his intention to spend the afternoon teaching a couple kids how to defend themselves in the streets against armed or unarmed attackers. But once they started learning they just kept wanting more and more. By the time they finally get around to their shooting course, it’s pretty fuckin’ clear that big red learned most of his shit from ROTC. He’s very by-the-book, took his after-school training seriously. Mickey doesn’t ask why he isn’t still involved, it seems to center him to be out here doing this shit. Probably can’t even get the Army to take him if he’s bipolar.   
“Can you show me how to make a shiv?” Carl, all wide-eyes with excitement, wonders on the walk home.  
“Sure, long as you promise not to use it.”  
“Unless I need to,” he grins.   
Kid’s a fuckin’ maniac, “need,” Mickey emphasizes.   
“Yeah. Hey, Debs,” taking a few faster steps to catch up with her, “he said yes.”  
“Your sister is really going to kill me, isn’t she?” he jabs an elbow into ginger’s side.  
“Yeah. She is,” he laughs, “probably me first though. Bring the kids home all covered in bruises and scrapes. Shivs in their pockets.”  
When Ian’s hand brushes against Mickey’s on accident, he grips it. Just briefly. A tight, quick squeeze before letting it go. Jesus, the fuckin’ bright ass smile that rises on his face at the contact. He barely stifles a laugh at the sight of it. It feels like clouds clearing, and it feels fuckin’ great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aging Carl, Debbie and Liam down in relativity to the age Ian would be in this. For a couple reasons, the first being that I loved the relationships that Carl and Debbie were forming with Mickey throughout seasons four and five. So I wanted to play with that a little bit. Second being that I absolutely hated the story arc for Debbie in the later seasons. Third being that I loved the Carl that always had that little psycho smile on his face. Fourth being that Liam is too much of a mystery to me, so he'll work for a little part of this story later on if he's aged down.


	12. Men Have Always Had Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pillow talk

Men Have Always Had Men

He sighs, laying his head down on the pillow. Facing Mickey. He was shocked that he stuck around all day. And all night. Sat at the dinner table with them. Looking a little wide-eyed and awkward, but staying. They even convinced him to get in the pool. Debbie promised it just wasn’t that hard to learn to swim, she’d show him before the night was over. She did. Sort of. It’s not like Mickey could swim in a lake, but he seemed comfortable floating by the end of the night.   
And now he’s shocked that he’s looking at him across the bed. His smile is tender as he reaches out to stroke a hand through Ian’s hair, “thank you,” he hears himself whisper.  
Startled expression creeping in, “for what?”  
“Staying,” he admits.  
“Fuck all to do today anyway,” he shrugs it off.  
“No Mick,” reaching for his free hand that’s on the mattress between them, “thank you for staying.”  
He snorts, opening his mouth to no doubt blow it off again, but Ian cuts him off by kissing him. He’s sure he’s not up for sex, his body feels like it’s full of lead. The meds are mostly balanced, but when he does have to take a sedative it seems to kill his sex drive for days. He hates that. He especially hates that when he pulls back and sees that gorgeous face looking at him. All calm and full of tenderness, he wants nothing more than to kiss and caress until early morning. But his brain and his body are not on the same page.   
“Sorry,” he blurts.  
“For what?” eyebrows rising this time.  
“Um, I, it’s just that sometimes…”  
“Spit it out mumbles,” his hand is still working its way through Ian’s hair.  
“Sometimes, um,” he feels a blush creeping into his cheeks, “sometimes my dick doesn’t, um…”  
“Doesn’t always have to be about sex firecrotch,” he smirks, hand coming down to his cheek, tapping in that gentle rough way that only Mickey can tap, “I mean chances are good I’ll never turn down a round, but that doesn’t mean there can’t be other things too.”  
“Things?”  
“Yeah. And I ain’t sayin’ fill that mouth up. You ain’t feelin’ it, I ain’t askin’. I’m sayin’, you wanna talk I’m right here. You wanna sleep, I’m right here. You wanna stare at me all night, that’s kinda fuckin’ weird, but I’m right here.”  
He feels himself smiling. A half nod, but he doesn’t really want to talk. Sleep probably is the best thing. Sleeping with this man. This man who has begun to seep into every single nook and cranny of Ian’s brain. And he’s okay with that.  
“What are you doin’ tomorrow?”  
Shrug.  
“You, uh, you wanna meet my son?”  
“You have a son?”  
“Yeah. I get him every Sunday. We usually go to the park, or throw pebbles off the roof of the Alibi. Try to confuse the drunks. Sometimes we go to the old buildings, or Ms Bodnar’s. He’s somethin’. I think you’d like him.”  
“Yeah,” he agrees immediately. A bud of warmth spreading through his chest. This felt unreal all day today, and all night last night. This openness and acceptance that’s beginning to form between them. It feels incredible, “I’d love to meet him.”  
“Good,” his thumb moving slowly back and forth across Ian’s cheek.  
“So are you not 100% gay?”  
“Oh, it’s about percentages?”  
Half laugh, shrugging, “yeah. I mean I don’t think I could ever get a hard-on for a woman. So I’m definitely 100% gay.”  
“Is that really something you can be in this neighborhood?”  
“Well, I mean it helps that Mandy pretended to be my girlfriend all the way through high school.”  
“Your family care?”  
“Nah. Lip was kind of weirded out at first I think. But, I guess I’m lucky.”  
“Your dad even?”  
He snorts a laugh, “Frank? Yeah right. Men have always had men,” he imitates his dad’s drunken slur when he found out accidentally that Ian was gay, “I haven’t really told the younger siblings, but,” shrug, “I guess the more you stay here, the more they’re just going to figure it out on their own anyway. But they won’t say anything.”  
“You ever date a dude then?”  
“Yeah. Sort of. I wanted to make a career out of the military when I was younger. Thought I stood a chance of getting into Westpoint. Then when I realized I couldn’t get the math grades to make it, and couldn’t stand being here anymore, I faked an ID with my brother’s information and enlisted when I was seventeen. That was what triggered my first manic episode. I tried to steal a helicopter, went AWOL, lived on the streets with my mom for awhile. Started stripping at a club, met a guy, moved in with him. If I had been with my family, they’d probably have seen the signs, maybe been able to stop some of the damage I’d end up causing,” his heart is slowly making it’s way towards his throat. Thinking it’ll only be a moment before Mickey pulls the plug. Realizing he can’t handle dating someone this fucking crazy. But he feels a pull to be honest. Completely honest. At least that way if Mickey ends it now, he won’t be wasting any more of his time on Ian.  
“Then I um, cheated. Filmed a porn. When he called me out, told me I needed to get a psych eval, I just, I don’t know. I grabbed his baby daughter and took her for a joyride. It was so fucking stupid. I left her in the car, doors locked, windows up, in the middle of the summer. I’m so fucking lucky she ended up okay. And I’m so fucking lucky I ended up in the psych ward instead of jail.”  
Mickey is silent. Watching him. But there’s no show of pity or shock on his face. No sign that he’ll get up and run. As fast and as far away from the fucking wack-job whose hand he’s holding.   
“Sorry,” he blurts, “I just, um, thought you should know. Before this gets anymore serious between us,” he can feel himself wanting to break eye contact, wanting to pull away and hide under the covers. It’s hard to admit his past mistakes, the things his disorder has spurred him to do. The things that could easily happen again if he lets the disorder take over his life.   
“Nothin’ to apologize for. So what was it that triggered you last night? What should I be avoiding?”  
“Nothing. You don’t have to take care of me. That’s not something I’m going to ask you to do.”  
“I don’t wanna take care of your ginger ass,” he smiles, “I wanna fuck your ginger ass, and if you’re actin’ all crazy, filmin’ pornos and runnin’ off with babies, then I ain’t gonna be doin’ anything with your ass.”  
“Fuck, I guess I…”  
“Wanna?”  
“Want to what?”  
“Fuck,” he smirks.  
“I wish.”  
Silent for a moment, scanning Ian’s face while that smile slowly fades, “so what was it? Last night. Too much going on, should I not ask you to come to the shows anymore?”  
“No, that’s not it. I want to go, I do. I had so much fun last night. I just, I don’t even know. It’s hard to explain. It’s like even when my meds are balanced and I feel good, I still have to keep everything so controlled. I guess I haven’t figured out how to feel the good things yet, without either stifling them or feeling too much. I just got too in my head last night. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t the show, or the club. I guess I’m still learning, the disorder and I guess how to live with it. I don’t know. I don’t want to be crazy,” his voice shakes and he really wants to pull away. Hide his face. But there’s something so supportive in those gorgeous blue eyes, something so open and welcoming, “the only other person I really feel like I can talk about this so openly with is your sister.”  
“Yeah? She’s alright. Your own family?”  
“No, not really. They just know Monica and her whole set of problems, the shit she put them through. They don’t really see that I’m not her.”  
He nods. Not responding vocally. Lying there comfortably, calmly. His fingers that are still entwined in Ian’s start adjusting. Lifting, pulling Ian’s hand to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss right there on the back of his hand. It sends a wave of tingles through Ian’s core, but he can’t yet. He can’t be in love yet. Even if he wants to be.   
Clearing his throat, reminding, “you didn’t answer my question yet.”  
“What question? If I wanna fuck?” his eyebrow arched.   
He loves those eyebrows, “no. I mean, how gay you are.”  
He snorts a laugh, “I’ve never quantified it before I guess,” sighing heavily, “first girl I fucked was when I was thirteen. I just thought it sucked ‘cause it was the first time and it was supposed to suck. Ended up in juvie at fourteen. Fucked a dude there ‘cause there was no other option. But it felt better than the chick. I think it was like ten months in juvie that time. Tried fucking girls again when I got out. Just never enjoyed it, I guess. But my dad was always going on about homos being the downfall of our society or some shit. He beat the hell out of Iggy once ‘cause he didn’t like the way he looked at one of his friends. So I don’t know,” his voice trails off.   
Watching Ian as he chews on his lower lip thoughtfully. Debating how open he truly wants to be before he takes a deep breath, admitting, “I had a guy over once. Dad walked in on us fucking. He always said it was okay to power fuck a dude behind bars, it was okay if it was for dominance and control; but by choice it was disgusting. He freaked out. Beat the hell out of me. Called a whore over and, uh, made me fuck her in front of my boyfriend. Whore ended up pregnant. We ended up married. She ain’t the worst person on the planet, but she’s a total pain in my ass. Got divorced a few months ago, now I pay for her place, the kid, her fuckin’ clothes and groceries. Bitch don’t even work anymore and now I can’t afford to get out my dad’s house.”  
“Fuck,” it’s all he can form right now.  
“Guess when the kid’s eighteen and I don’t gotta pay child support anymore I’ll be thirty-six. Terry probably be back in the can soon enough. He never stays out for more than a year or two at a time. So, could be worse. Long as I stay out of prison,” he shrugs, “but the food ain’t bad, bed, clothes, free fucks as long as you don’t end up someone’s bitch. Sometimes easier in than out. It’s just so fuckin’ boring.”  
“How many times you been in?”  
“Twice. Stealin’ then for breakin’ probation.”  
A comfortable silence falls between them. There’s still so many more layers to Mickey, and Ian knows it, but tonight it’s probably best to let sleeping dogs lie. He smiles over at Ian, eyes starting to look tired, “you happy now? It’s gonna take a lot more than stealin’ a helicopter to scare me off,” his hand rises, taking Ian’s chin, “now how ‘bout you tongue fuck my mouth for a bit before I pass out?”  
Like there’s any way, any time, or any place that Ian would say no to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carrying on with Ian and Lip's measurements of gay. I'm pretending the storyline of Ian sleeping with a woman never happened either - that was way too obnoxious on way too many levels, so it's not part of his history for me. The things I am keeping in place with these two are the things that I think really affected them individually, so in this story they just happened with other people - other people who didn't stay when things got rough.  
> There were moments when I liked Svetlana's character, and times (brief ones) that I felt her and Mickey sort of cared for each other - so I'll play off that aspect in this. And will definitely ignore the stupid thruple thing.  
> I also felt like given the time and space, Mickey would have stepped up to the plate for Yev, so since this fiction is going towards the lighter side of things - we'll do just that with the two of them.


	13. Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting the son

Over  
Ian can’t get over how much the kid is like his dad. Same eyes, same brows, same strut. Little firecracker. He warmed up to Ian quickly, grabbing for his hand to cross some of the streets.  
“Where we eatin’ tonight demon spawn?” squeezing the back of the kid’s neck while they make their way home from the abandoned buildings.  
“Aunt Mandy’s!”  
“I didn’t even give you your list of options yet.”  
“Aunt Mandy’s!” he repeats, this time stabbing his stick in the air in front of him like a sword.  
“Alright,” he sighs, “let me at least see if she’s home first.”  
“Alright. Daddy? Can ginger come too?”  
“I don’t know, ask ginger,” jabbing an elbow into Ian’s side with a snicker.  
Of course he’d have a three year old calling him ginger now too. The kid turns with a deceivingly angelic smile aimed up at Ian, “can you come to dinner ginger?”  
“I don’t see why not,” shrugging. He looks sideways over at Mickey for his response, and his response is a grin. A gorgeous grin. Fuck, Ian could look at that face all day.  
“Hey bitchwit, bringin’ Yev and a friend of mine over to your place for dinner… yeah well, make some grilled cheese or somethin’… fuck you talkin’ about vegetables for?… fine, we’ll grab some fuckin’ broccoli or some shit… see you in thirty,” sliding the phone in the back pocket of his jeans with a scoff, “broccoli. Who the fuck needs a balanced diet?”  
“Little shits like me!” Yev pipes up from in front of them.  
“Fuckin’ right, but don’t say that shit in front of your mom.”  
Ian can’t stifle the grin rising. Wanting to reach out and kiss that dirty mouth. Fuck, it’d be incredible if they could be open with their relationship. But he’ll settle for that quick, hard hand clenching down on his as they swing past each other. And he’ll settle for holding the hand of his offspring when they cross the street. And he’ll settle for ‘friend of mine’. For now. For now, this is okay. Okay’s not perfect, but it’s much better than anything else Ian has felt in a long time.  
————  
Shit, he didn’t see it coming. He didn’t even think about it. But he’s sees that light come on over Mandy’s head at the dinner table. She seemed surprised that Ian was said ‘friend of mine’ but Mickey played it off well, and Ian played it off well. Making some bullshit up about having run into each other in the old buildings, started hanging out, shooting guns and grabbing the occasional beer together. Mandy was, after-all, always telling Mickey he needed some friends, so too fuckin’ bad it ended up being her best friend. She shrugged it off, got distracted by her nephew but now she’s between bites when she wonders, “so you’re saying I have to share, not only with this secretive new boyfriend, but also with my brother?”  
Clearing his throat, nodding, but clarifying, “I never said boyfriend.”  
“No? Pretty sure someone who takes up half your weekend, someone who you can’t stop talking about, can’t stop thinking about, can’t stop turning into a thirteen year old girl over - is your boyfriend. Whether you want to admit it or not.”  
Trying so hard to stifle a blush, avoiding eye contact with Mickey. Feeling his blue eyes scanning him over, appraising the situation calmly. It’s his decision. Ian is not going to be the one to tell his sister that he’s gay. And he certainly won’t be the one to tell her they’re dating.  
“Oh shit, I’m an asshole,” she exclaims, “I just outed you in front of your friend, shit. I’m sorry Ian. I just…”  
“I knew already,” Mickey interrupts, “but that was a dipshit move there.”  
“I know. I’m sorry,” her hand hovers over Ian’s for a moment on the table before gently landing on it and squeezing.  
He looks across the table at her blue eyes, full of apology and he nods, “it’s okay.”  
“Sorry,” she murmurs again, then blurts, “I’m full of everyone’s secrets,” glaring at her brother.  
“Fuck you lookin’ at me for?” his eyebrows are rising in an angry arch. His head tilts towards the kid who is all ears.  
“Right,” dropping the subject and Ian’s hand, looking at Yev, “what’d you do with your dad today, huh?”  
Shit. She’s watching the boy talk, but she’s not listening. She’s putting two and two together. This was a terrible idea, agreeing to come here. He should have warned Mick. Or warned Mandy. Or something, told them to talk it out before just agreeing to the kid’s request.  
Now a weird brother/sister stare off is happening. Neither of them budging an inch, whatever ground they’re standing, they’re standing pretty damn steady. It’s Mickey’s whose face finally changes, his eyebrows up to his hairline and Mandy winks. Going back to eating like nothing ever happened.  
Shit. Hoping beyond hope that she won’t put the drag queen part of it together, “so, um,” siding up to him while he does dishes in her kitchen sink, “you guys been friends how long?”  
“Fuck off Mandy,” a gruff voice demands from the other side of the apartment.  
“He was my friend first! You fuck off!” hollering, then a whispered, “I’m going to blow up your phone all night about this,” warning, jabbing a skinny finger into his ribs before she turns back to her brother and nephew.  
————  
He’s completely silent on the drive home. Yev chattered away in the backseat, but now that he’s been dropped off, Mickey is dead silent. Jaw clenched.  
Ian’s stomach has started to churn, biting his tongue to keep himself from digging this hole any deeper. A block away from his house, he blurts, “sorry. I should have told your son I was busy or something. That was a bad idea.”  
No response.  
“I didn’t even think about it Mick. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve gone.”  
His fingers drum on the wheel when he stops at the curb. Not a word. Not a look. Staring straight ahead.  
Fuck. He’s been on this end of silent treatment before. Austin was the king of it. Something about this hurts so much, like it’s final. It’s over and there’s nothing he can do about it. He gets a feeling if he pushes Mickey then he’ll get leveled. He’s seen the split, bloody knuckles plenty of times in the months they’ve been hanging out, he’s seen the remnants of fights and he’s certain Mickey comes out on the winning side much more often than not.  
Not just a physical push either. If he nags, if he keeps apologizing or acting clingy, demanding attention; Mickey will shut down.  
“Okay,” he gives in, pushing the door open and stepping out onto the street, “thanks for the fun weekend,” he mumbles towards the door as he closes it.  
Dread is consuming him as he makes his way slowly up the porch stairs. Thinking about all the things he should have done better this weekend. The entire weekend. Friday night was incredible and he ruined that. Saturday was incredible and he ruined that. And now today? Today was so beautiful. Another wonderful layer of Mickey that he was exposing to Ian. The dad layer, foul-mouth aside, it’s obvious how much he loves that kid. Looking past the traumatic way he was conceived and stepping up to the plate to take care of him, spend time with him; it’s more than most guys around here do as fathers.  
His butt lands on the top step without realizing he was sitting down. Leaning against the rail. Arms crossed, hugging himself even though it’s still plenty warm outside. He can hear his siblings on the other side of the house, playing in the pool. He can hear a few neighbors arguing across the street. Sirens in the distance. And the repeat in his head, ‘it’s over. It’s over. It’s over. Just like you knew it would be. Just like it always is. And it’s your fault. Again.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey could handle the idea of dating someone who is bipolar, but can he handle one of his secrets being revealed?


	14. Milkovich Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy confronting her brother

Milkovich Anger

“What the fuck are you doing?!” she storms across the open space with an air of anger that only a Milkovich can possess. Reaching out and smacking him across the face, “what the fuck is your problem? You’re a fucking pussy!”  
He shoves her hard in response to her smack, tipping his pint of whiskey back for another swig, “fuck’s it look like I’m doing?” tossing another rock at the broken bottle across the floor.   
“It looks like you’re drinking instead of owning up to the fact that you’re a pussy! It looks like instead of apologizing to Ian, you’re going to pout and drink, act like a fucking child about it. It looks like you’re throwing away one of the few things that has made you happy because what? Because I figured out you’re dating him? You think I fucking care? You think I’m going to go tell Dad?”  
He motions walking feet in the air with his fingers. Taking another swig of the warm amber liquid. It’s been three weeks. He hasn’t gone to the shows. Hasn’t seen ginger. Been doing his dad’s stupid drug runs. And the one day of the week that matters anymore is Sunday. The only days that he’s been sober in the last few weeks.  
“Fuck you!” she shouts it, throwing a rock at him. It bounces off his shoulder and he bites his lip, “you’re such a fucking prick! Couldn’t even have the balls to tell him you’re done? Just ignore him and hope he goes away? Fucking grow a pair,” this time she kicks him. Hard in the side of the leg. And this time it pisses him off. Swaying when he gets to his feet but taking her to the ground quick anyway. She gets a few good licks in, he gets a few good shots in. By the time they’re done pounding on each other, he has a fat lip and she’s rubbing at her arm, “you still hit like a little girl,” Mandy accuses.  
“Yeah well I ain’t gonna hit my own sister for real. Even if she deserves it. You were pullin’ punches too.”  
“Yeah well I’m not gonna hit my own sister full force either,” she grunts at him.  
“The fuck else ginger tell ya?” ball of anxiety rising in his throat.  
“Huh?”  
“The. Fuck. Else. Did. He. Tell. You?” he repeats nice and slow.  
“You’re such a dick. All I know is that he’s been so fucking happy the last few months. All I knew about the guy was that he really fucking liked him. That he was closeted too, but they were having fun.”  
He lights a cigarette, hoping she doesn’t notice the shaking in his hands, “yeah well…”  
“Fuck off. Give me one of those,” gabbing the lit one out of his hand, “don’t just ‘yeah well’ this shit. You like him?”  
“I don’t know. Maybe,” lighting another smoke.  
“Then don’t be a dick. You think I didn’t know about your boyfriend back in high school? I knew. Did I tell Dad then? Fuck no. I’ve been covering for Ian since we were fourteen. You think I don’t understand how hard it is to be gay around here? It’s hard to be anything in this neighborhood. I get it. Just don’t be an asshole. He really likes you. And sure, he’s got his problems, but he’s a sweet guy. Really sweet. So please,” taking his face in her hands to force eye contact, “don’t be a prick.”  
Shaking out of her grasp. Only response is to take another drink off his pint before she grabs it out of his hands, downing about half of what’s left, “now sober the fuck up and talk to him. Like a fucking adult. Okay?” finishing the whiskey, tossing the empty bottle across the open floorspace and leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey was called a pussy plenty of times when he didn't deserve it, but the only time I felt as though it was well warranted was when Mandy did it. Think it'll make a difference this time?


	15. An Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did Mandy push him in the right direction?

An Itch

“Fiona says we aren’t allowed to let you in,” Carl crosses his arms over his chest. Giving him his best tough-guy scowl. It’s not very effective.  
“That so? What Fiona don’t know…”  
“And you smell like whiskey,” Debbie appears behind her brother, eyes narrowed, “you know, Frank used to drink angry when Monica was being Monica. It never worked, he never could drink her away.”  
Fuck. There’s something so fucking wise about this innocent faced little matchstick.  
“Come back when you’re sober.”  
“Why, so I can get kicked out again?”  
“You’re not getting kicked out. You’re just not getting let in.”  
“The fuck difference it make?”  
Her eyes narrow into tiny little slits as she extends her hand, finger pointing to the sidewalk at his back, “move along. Come back when you’re sober.”  
His fingers rise quickly to rub at his eyes, frustration starting to boil. If these little shits weren’t Ian’s siblings, they’d be in for a world of pain right now. Or at least a sharp tongue lashing, “fuck,” he sighs, “okay. But your tough guy thing ain’t foolin’ anybody,” he warns the kid as he backs down the porch stairs.  
He stops on the sidewalk to light a cigarette. They’re right. Little bastards, they’re right to be looking out for their brother. And they’re right that he shouldn’t be trying to have a conversation with this much whiskey in his blood. Even if it’s been few hours since Mandy finished off his bottle. Fuck. Taking a long slow drag, dreading going home. It’s late enough by now Terry’s probably passed out. But fuck. Sometimes just the sound of his snoring and drunken grunting makes Mick’s blood boil. If he wasn’t his fucking father, the prick would be six feet under by now. He fuckin’ hates him. Hates him for what he’s done to Mick throughout the years, what he’s done to his brothers, their mother, and most of all Mandy. Fuck, he hated that. He hated knowing, knowing exactly what was going on and being so completely fucking helpless to it. And the way she’d just shrug it off. Like it was just a normal fucking thing. Just a fucking day in the Milkovich house of horrors.  
Fuck. He doesn’t want to go home. Home. Like it was ever home. Not since his mom died. Home, fuck, wonder what that’s like.  
He feels himself stopping suddenly. Down the street, but the Gallagher house still in view. Lights on. People home. People who care about each other. Have each other’s backs. Protect each other.  
A smile starts rising on his face. Mickey Milkovich was just forbidden entry to a fucking house by two fucking kids. Two fucking kids. And he just took it. And walked away. Knowing they were doing the right thing. He wasn’t about to argue it.  
The smirk doesn’t fade while he walks into the late summer night. The familiar sounds of the neighborhood surrounding him. Some parties in full swing. A few drunken rants being carried out open windows. Shouting. Kids laughing. Distant gunfire. Sirens. The music of the city, pulsing around him. A beat that is bred into his bones. He’ll always be Southside. And fuck, it just didn’t feel that terrible when he had Ian. For the amazing few months. Having someone who understood him. Always this fucking look in his eye, like ‘I get it’, ‘I get you’. That’s nothing Mickey has ever felt any other place than the club. Under layers of make-up and sparkles, stage lights, ivory at his fingertips.  
He didn’t have to miss his mom then either. It was like she was sitting on the bench right next to him. Every single night. With that sparkle in her eye. That note of pride every time he’d finish a set and the crowd cheered him on. It was like he was right back there in the music shop. Plunking his uncoordinated fingers against the ivories while she leaned back, lighting a smoke in her long graceful cigarette holder. The holder that Ms Bodnar gave her on her seventeenth birthday. An old prop from her vaudeville days. Nadiya had loved sitting with the old woman, going through her old photos. The stories never getting old, she’d listen to every single word every single time like it was the first time she’d heard it. And she’d smile. She’d smile even when she had a black eye. Or a split lip. She’d smile like it was the most incredible story she’d ever heard. It was three months before Nadiya died that Ms Bodnar got that old baby grand. Mickey didn’t understand it at the time, why the old woman had tears in her eyes as she gripped Mickey’s hand and watched his mother sit down in front of the piano. He didn’t understand it until he felt it. He felt Nadiya’s heart and soul bleeding, pouring out from her earthly form with every single note she played. Her fingernails broken, torn off; just another thing Mickey never understood at the time. Why sometimes Mom had broken fingernails, seemingly ripped off at the nail-beds. A woman who was so fierce when it came to protecting her children, why she was so skittish sometimes. Like a bird with broken wings. She was the shield that stood between Terry and her children. It wasn’t until after that shield was gone that Mickey understood.  
And fuck, he understood it quick. And hard. He was always Terry’s least favorite child. He always looked at him with severe disdain, like every single thing Mickey did was foreign. Foreign to Terry, and foreign to Terry was never intriguing. It was feared. Fear made Terry lash out, made Terry want to smash it to smithereens so it could never question his way of life. A father and son. Completely foreign to one another. Growing up under his thumb, trying to stick beneath the radar, avoid an ass-whooping. It filed down Mickey’s soft edges, rubbed them raw and bleeding, forcing barbed wire to grow in its place. Prickly, ready to lash out at anyone who got too near. Lashing out, something Mickey has always been good at. Always on the defensive. Always assuming everyone was out to use him. Use him, hurt him, leaving him bleeding and dying on some darkened street corner. Trust. It was never something Mickey was willing to hand out.  
Fuck. He stops walking when he realizes he’s standing in front of the music store. They’ve certainly upgraded their security systems in the years since Nadiya used to pick the locks and usher her two youngest children inside. Mickey lights another smoke. Leaning back against the lamppost. Appraising the building. The block. The street at his back. Always appraising. His surroundings, always doing a quick head count, a quick once over of every single detail that could possibly jump up and bite him in the ass. Never letting his guard down. Never. Even in his sleep he’s ready. Ready for that fist to meet his jaw in the morning. Ready for that shout to echo through the house as Terry stumbled over an empty beer can. Ready for that quiet sobbing escaping his sister’s room.  
Fuck. Place probably has too many cameras to risk it. He’s got a kid. A kid he has to provide for. And he can’t do that behind bars. A kid he has to be the father for, the father that he never had. The father that most of the kids around here never had, and never will have. Mickey could give fuck all about himself. But that fuckin’ kid. Fuck.  
It’s almost a physical itch. In his hands. All the time. An itch to punch someone’s face bloody. An itch to smash a glass window with his bare hands. An itch, tingling sensations. An itch to feel those keys beneath his fingers and disappear. Disappear into thin air. Become the sound, the feel, the beat. Become the joy and sorrow laced through every note. Become the release. Until there’s nothing left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved Debbie's speech to Mickey in the show, so I reused a little piece of it here.
> 
> I don't think there was ever a name given to the Milkovich mother - correct me if I'm wrong.


	16. Sleeping On The Porch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little show of dedication, maybe sort of an apology.

Sleeping On The Porch

“Ian!” her voice filters into his head, up the stairs, through the closed bedroom door and cutting into the fog of sleep, “why is Mickey Milkovich sleeping on my porch? For the third fucking morning in a row!”  
A smirk rises as he pulls himself to sitting.  
“We told him he couldn’t come in!” Carl shouts back from the bedroom down the hall.  
Ian has pretty much taken over Lip’s old room. He’s never home anyway. Fiona was all protective about it, ‘Lip will be home for the summers and vacations’, but after the first couple semesters she started to let it go. He wasn’t home this summer anyway, some fancy internship with his girlfriend’s dad. A few more years and the poverty line will be so far back in his rearview mirror it’ll be as if it never loomed over his entire childhood like an imposing impassable wall.  
“So he’s sleeping on the porch?!”  
“You told us not to let him in!”  
“I’ll take care of it,” Ian sighs when he leaves the shelter of the bedroom. Stepping into the noise field that is his family. Some days he doesn’t mind it, days like today when no one is actually mad, they’re just yelling because that’s their normal volume level. There are never whispered conversations in this house.  
He makes a quick stop in the bathroom. As much as Mickey probably looks like shit, sleeping on the porch isn’t very comfortable. But Mickey looking like shit is more like the way an average person looks on an average day. No, still above average. Who is Ian kidding? Guy’s fucking beautiful. So a quick face scrub in the sink isn’t going to do it. A full shower, teeth brushing, pit stick. Cologne is too much for first thing in the morning.  
Glance in the mirror, exit bathroom. Deep breath, focusing on the positives. If he’s here and has been for three mornings now, then he’s in it. Mandy seemed pretty certain he’d come around, but Ian was starting to doubt her when one week turned into two, turned into three, and he still hadn’t heard anything.  
“Ian,” Fiona grabs his arm at the base of the stairs, worry in her brow line as she looks him over, “he’s a Milkovich.”  
“No kidding.”  
“Just,” she sighs, “understand what you’re getting yourself into before you get into it. Please?”  
“I do,” reassuring with a nod, “he’s different Fi. He’s not just a piece of trash, he’s…” what could possibly suffice to describe him? Under that tough exterior he’s the most caring person Ian has ever met. He’s understanding and supportive. He’s by far the most mature Soutsider Ian has ever spent time with. Even if it’s his job to beat the shit out of people, run drugs and guns illegally. That doesn’t make him a bad guy, that just makes him someone in a shitty situation making the most of it. He wants more, he wants to be a normal guy, a good dad, he wants the freedom to be himself. He still dreams. He dreams in color, which is more than most hood rats can do. The life around him has tried to take that from him, but he’s managed to hang on. And that’s something that could truly benefit Ian to be around.  
He finally shrugs, landing on, “incredible.”  
Unable to ignore the lightness and honesty in her brother’s expression, she smiles, “okay,” patting his arm gently, “well I guess if he slept on the porch for the last three nights then he’s pretty fucking dedicated too. Alright, I’m going to sleep. The diner won’t run itself, get there on time please. Remind Debbie that Liam is her responsibility today.”  
Nodding his response. Listening as her feet carry her up the stairs before he looks out the front door. Sitting on the top step, lit cigarette in one hand, cup of coffee in the other. Debbie next to him, of course she’d be the one to cave first and bring him some coffee and company. Whether he wanted the company or not. The few words that are audible combined with the jabbing motion Mickey is making with his cigarette in the air, he’s clearly walking her through a successful shanking. And now is the time to open the door and interrupt.  
“Okay Debs, shankings don’t happen at the public pool, right?”  
She scoffs at him, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she stands, “if those evil bitches don’t start leaving me alone - they just might.”  
“Hey, fists only ‘less it’s behind bars,” Mickey reminds her.  
Just the sound of his voice makes Ian’s heart thud hard against his ribcage, “or if they start it,” she mumbles on her way past Ian into the house.  
“Heard that!” Mickey shouts, shrugging without turning to look at Ian, “she’s right though. Fuckin’ teenage girls, man. Nothin’ crueler.”  
Ian clears his throat, “well maybe some guy who pretty much outs you to your sister. That could be crueler.”  
“Nah,” a shrug, taking a drag and letting the smoke swirl in the air in front of him as Ian takes the seat where Debbie just was, “that’s not cruel. Just stupid. Whole fuckin’ thing.”  
“What about making you sleep on the porch for three nights instead of having a conversation?”  
“No worse than avoiding said conversation for three fuckin’ weeks.”  
He’s not entirely sure, but that’s probably the closest thing he’ll get to an apology, “well Mandy is the one who told me to make you wait it out. She said you’re usually a dick when you’re ready to start talking, making you sleep on it would stifle the anger.”  
“And you fuckin’ believed her?” when his head turns his eyebrows are up, not in anger though. More like amusement.  
He nods, feeling a smile rising on his own face. The sight of this man after three weeks of nothing, fuck it’s stirring a serious tornado of emotions in Ian’s core.  
“Yeah well, maybe I should’ve told Yev to fuck off instead of inviting you along. It’s hard to tell that little shit to fuck off though,” a tenderness rising, his eyes twinkling as he scans Ian’s face. He stifles it quickly, focus shifting to his cup of coffee, telling it, “everything’s just gotta be so fuckin’ complicated. Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe it ain’t that bad for my sister to know. Or even my son. But then it’s only a matter of time before my ex-wife knows. And if she knows, I can bet my ass the whole fuckin’ neighborhood will in a matter of days. I just,” he sighs hard. Voice trailing off as he takes a drink of the steaming liquid, “thought we’d have a fun one-nighter, never see each other again. Then I just fuckin’…stupid,” cursing himself out as his eyes rise. Meeting Ian’s, feeling like a shock to his system, “I love you.”  
All the breath in his lungs leaves on one exhale. He’s left staring, wide-eyed and staring into an ocean. An ocean that is beautiful, deep, and terrifying. His only life line is that string of eye contact. He feels it. Fuck, he feels it too. But the ball that has suddenly clogged his throat is making it impossible to vocalize anything. Anything at all. He feels like he’s on one of those tarzan swings, leaping off a ledge, holding tight, swinging out over the water. And unable to let go.  
He hears a car door slam down the street. He hears a bird chirping somewhere down the alley. He hears the garbage truck’s brakes squealing. He hears Mickey breathe. Watches his eye contact falter.  
Fuck, don’t let this moment falter. Don’t leave this man hanging. He’s everything you want, and you feel it too. You know you do. You feel every single part of him, even through the meds, through the diagnosis that you’re still trying to make heads or tails of. Navigating your way through this life the last couple years, but this man has felt like a beacon of hope from the moment you laid eyes on him in that club. That clear crystal blue gaze that had your heart in your throat immediately. Still does.  
He stops thinking. And starts leaning. One hand reaching for the back of Mickey’s neck. The other for his chin. Tilting, guiding. The contact is gentle. He feels the tension rising in Mickey’s body. Against his lips. Expecting him to pull back, curse him out for doing this right here. Right out in the open. But he stays. And Ian stays. Lips to lips, nothing more. Not yet. Not until Mick’s ready. Parting lips, but leaning forehead to forehead, admitting softly, “I love you too.”  
“Fuck,” it hitches in relief. Ian hears the coffee mug landing on the step behind him. Feels Mickey’s rough hand gently land on his jaw. Tracing over to his chin, pulling. Pulling him closer. Closer until they’re lips to lips again. The tension and worry dissipating as his lips part, dragging Ian’s further into his own. There isn’t a desperate mashing, no tangled emotions, it’s soft, tender. And the only emotion is love. It’s clear and simple. For this moment. Maybe the only moment anything in Mick’s life has ever been clear and simple. The ‘I love you for every single thing that you are’ moment. Ian isn’t even certain what all of Mickey is, but he knows what he feels. He knows it feels good. Really fucking good. A high that is perfectly balanced, one that makes him feel like he’s jumping off the Willis Tower and at the same time keeping his feet solidly planted on the ground. The exact high that could make this life not just worth living, but make it something he truly wants to live.  
When he leans out, Mickey smacks his cheek, his love tap, “you gotta get to work?”  
“Yeah,” gaining his bearings, using Mickey’s gaze to draw himself back to this moment. To sitting on the porch of his childhood home. One he thought he’d be moved out of by now, “breakfast, meds, work. You wanna stay for breakfast? I could make something.”  
“Something?”  
“Well I don’t have much time, but um, oatmeal?”  
“Oatmeal?” his eyebrows rise as he shakes his head but he’s getting to his feet with a, “sure firecrotch. Oatmeal sounds fuckin’ great.”  
“I made french toast,” Debbie hollers as soon as the door is open, “there’s enough there for everyone, Carl! Can you take Liam for an hour? I’ll be…”  
“No! He’s yours today! I have shit to do,” as the back door slams behind him.  
She rolls her eyes, standing at the stove, “Ian. I have to pay the water bill before noon today. But if I ride my bike it will only take me about twenty minutes, Liam can’t ride a bike yet.”  
“Twenty minutes? Why you need an hour then?” Mickey wonders.  
“Because I haven’t walked out the door yet, have I?” she scoffs at him.  
“That takes about five seconds. You go now, I’ll watch him. But I ain’t stayin’ an hour.”  
She narrows her eyes at him, appraising his offer, thinking through if Fiona told them he can be left in charge or not. Deciding it doesn’t matter, “okay,” bolting up the stairs in a hurry.  
“That ain’t the door!”  
“I have to get ready!”  
“Ready?” his eyes land on Ian.  
Shrug, “she’s got a crush on one of the guys that works in the office there. She’s probably going to take about a half hour to get ready.”  
“Well Liam, looks like you’re walkin’ to the city building with your sister.”  
His mouth is too full to respond, looking at Mickey with annoyance in his gaze.  
“It’s fine,” Ian sighs, “I’ll take him to the diner. What do you think Liam? I’ll let you play with my phone while you wait for Debs, and if you eat all your breakfast you can have a piece of pie when we get there.”  
At the offer, his eating speed increases. Mickey sits at the table with a sigh, “nah man, it’s fine. I told her I’d watch him. I’ll watch him. He don’t need to go to work with you.”  
Something comes out of Liam’s mouth, past the gob of half-chewed french toast. Something that sounds to Ian like, “no pie?”  
“We’ll still get you a piece of pie kid,” Mickey responds, “if you eat all that’s on your plate. Then wash your face and hands, put your dishes in the sink, and take a leak.”  
“You don’t have to,” Ian tells him matter-of-factly. In true Gallagher fashion, trying his hardest to shut down anyone who offers help.  
“No? Well, fuck it then. You can be late for work ‘cause a five year old can’t walk as fast as a giant with a huge stride. And then he can sit at the diner bored out of his mind, killin’ brain cells by starin’ at a phone screen. While you barely have time to watch what he’s doin’ ‘cause you’re doin’ your fuckin’ job. So some poor waitress who’s just tryin’ to do her job will end up distracted by keepin’ an eye on him. And Debbie’ll be late ‘cause she’ll think I’ve got him here and she’ll spend at least an hour lookin’ all over the place, wakin’ Fiona up, before someone calls you. By then they’ll all be pissed at me for losin’ him and they’ll never trust me to keep an eye on him again.”  
“Hey Mick?” gaining his full attention from his plate. Reaching for a tight grip on his chin, leaning in. Quick and eager, but drawing back just as quickly, “thank you. I’ll see you down there in a little bit.”  
Clearing his throat while he eyes Liam who hasn’t done anything more than shove another forkful into his mouth, “uh yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's early in the relationship to be announcing love, but when you feel it - you feel it. And yes, I used the front porch as the setting to reverse the damage of the break-up scene from the show.
> 
> I'm also using Patsy's Pies, I'll steer Fiona a little differently, and I sent Lip back to school even though he was mostly miserable in college, but whatever. I'm just tired of all the cycles being unbroken in this family. I'm ready to break some, with this fic being a little on the lighter side, I just might as well do it!


	17. Burning Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A career path exploration

Burning Building

Ian seems content to work at a diner. But it doesn’t suit him. Mickey pictures him in something a little more intense, maybe ‘cause of the whole wanting to be in the military thing. But it sounds like that flew out the window. Fiona made him work for his position here. Made him start by busing tables. Moving up to waiting tables. She bought a laundromat, sold it for a half ton and bought an apartment building. From what Ian has told him, it does well, keeps her busy. So she promoted Ian to a weekday manager at the diner. Seems like the staff respects him. Just sitting here watching him move around behind the counter, Mickey can see the inclination he has for a military type order to things.   
“How’s the pie?” he wonders when he stops for a brief moment, topping off Mick’s coffee mug.  
Sees Liam nodding around his mouthful, he responds, “it’s fuckin’ good.”  
Ian’s smile is gentle, his eye contact not faltering as silence falls over them. Comfortable silence.   
But they are in public, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”  
Blinking away the dreamy expression, his gaze follows a firetruck blaring sirens down the street. The dreamy turns wistful as he watches it take a sharp right, his vision lingers for awhile after it’s long gone.  
Of course. Of course ginger with a dream of military would lurch at the idea of running into a burning building. Mickey almost opens his mouth to ask him, but when that gorgeous green gaze lands on his face he sees it immediately. Stamped across his pupils in a burning orange flame, blinking to yellow and fading away into black. Bipolar.   
But since Mickey is not easily dissuaded from an idea once it takes root in his mind, he and Liam stop at the friendly neighborhood firehouse on the walk back. Liam is practically dancing beside him as the big garage doors open and the trucks return, followed by the paramedic rig.   
“Are we going in? Are we going in?” his hand gripped tight in Mickey’s and he wonders why he never thought to bring Yev around here before. Of course little boys would love to stand outside the place and watch, even if all it meant was seeing the trucks getting cleaned, or loaded, or whatever the fuck these people do when they’re not putting out burning buildings.   
“Yeah, kid,” he sighs, walking in the open door.  
He’s met with a mixture of curiosity, maybe some mild annoyance from a few of them, it’s an officer looking guy that approaches them, “can I help you with something?”  
“Yeah, I gotta talk to the person in charge of hiring.”  
“It’s a little more complicated than that, you thinking about a career in firefighting?”  
“Me? Fuck no. I got a record. Friend of mine.”  
“Oh, well send him down. He can do a day of observation, take a few tests for compatibility. The process is kind of long, but he can stop by whenever and get the informational brochures from the front office. He’d have to go through EMT training first, and pass physical and written exams.”  
“Yeah, well thing is he’s bipolar,” Mickey’s not fond of bullshitting, he prefers to get straight to the point, “and all that training and test taking probably ain’t free. So I wanna talk to the person in charge. See if it’s even worth it to send him down here. ‘Cause if he can’t get hired ‘cause of a technicality, then,” he shrugs, his eyebrows risen as he scans this guy over. He’s tall, good looking, in good shape. But there’s something kind of smarmy in his gaze and Mickey wants to beat it out of him.   
“A mental disorder isn’t exactly a technicality,” this guy is practically begging for a black eye, “but, come this way, I’ll see if the chief is busy. Maybe he can answer your questions.”  
Fuck it, but Liam is practically drooling over the trucks and the chick firefighter is practically drooling over the kid’s big eyes while her uterus goes all mushy and she leans down to ask him, “do you think your dad would mind if you sat in the truck?”  
Dad, he starts to deny it, looking over at the kid who is looking at him like ‘yeah this is a package deal fucker, you want my brother you get all the Gallaghers’, so instead Mickey claps his shoulder and says, “have at it kid.”  
Turns out chief ain’t busy at all. Mickey gets shuffled right into the office, told to sit down by a big imposing black dude with a big imposing voice. Then the guy leaves to stand outside the office and talk to the smarmy blond dude right outside the door, right where Mickey can hear them anyway. And they both come back in. Smarmy blond guy stands with his arms crossed over his chest right inside the door, and chief sits behind his desk, “you’re interested in the training process?”  
“Were you listenin’ to blondie? Ain’t for me. I got a record. Got a friend, this shit would be right up his alley, but he’s bipolar. So there’s no reason to get him going over this shit if it would end up being something he’d get denied for anyway.”  
“My suggestion would be for him to come down and…”  
“Take the tour, observe a day, take some tests,” he waves his hand in the air impatiently, “like I said - no use in gettin’ him goin’ thinkin’ he can fight fires, get him through the tests and shit, just to be denied ‘cause he’s bipolar.”  
The guy leans back, hand rising to his face, rubbing along his jaw and covering his mouth for a long moment as he calmly looks Mickey over, “it’d be against the law to turn someone away because of a disability.”  
“Disability,” Mickey snorts towards his hands that have found their way to the edge of the desk, locked together to keep themselves from forming fists, “look, I ain’t a fuckin’ lawyer. I just want a fuckin’ straight answer. He’s on stable meds, he keeps a strict schedule, keeps himself fit and out of trouble. This shit would seriously be right up his fuckin’ alley. But I ain’t gonna send him down here to get his hopes up just so…”  
“I want to meet him.”  
“Huh?”  
The guy’s teeth are blindingly white when he smiles, “Southsiders. Either deadbeats who accepted their lot in life, or full of grit and determination. You’re one of the latter, safe to assume your friend is too. If he’s got what it takes, if he’s truly interested and has his disease under control, then I’d have no reason to turn him away. But I want to hear it from him.”  
Mickey’s not sure if he likes the chief’s assumptions about Southsiders, but it’s not really a bone he cares to pick right now, “okay.”  
“Okay,” he stands, offering his hand over the desk. Fuckin’ guy is huge. His hand could probably fold around Mickey’s twice, but Mickey shakes it firmly as he stands and chief mentions, “criminal records don’t necessarily mean denial around here either. Maybe the two of you observe a day together,” he shrugs.  
Mickey bites back a laugh, or a snort, to whatever is rising in his throat at the suggestion, “yeah, okay.”  
Fuckin’ lady’s uterus must have mushed up to fuckin’ nothing over Liam’s camel lashes. Kid’s got a bag full of shit, a plastic helmet on his head, and a stuffed dog - one of those white and black spotted ones with a fire hat on, tucked under his arm. As soon as they’re out of sight of the house, he hands the dog to Mickey, shrugging the offer his way, “your kid might like this.”  
Rubbing the top of his head with a quick gentle knuckle, “he just might, thanks kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was intrigued by Ian as a first responder, in a lot of ways it did feel like it fit his character. But of course was just another thing the show dangled and then destroyed.
> 
> Chicago Fire watchers may see appearance similarities to Captain Casey and Chief Boden, that is only because they are the image of firefighters that is currently in my brain, that is not because I am going to implant them into this fic.


	18. Softness And Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiona and Mickey having a chat.

Softness And Strength

Fiona stubs out her cigarette on the top stair, tossing the butt into the can by the door. Leaning back on her palms, tilting her face back to get a good warm caress from the finger of sun that has reached out enticingly to her. Letting the smoke roll out of her mouth slowly. Taking a moment to herself before the day begins. The hectic afternoons. She’ll shuffle the kids through the schedule for the rest of the day, make sure Ian’s meds are in his organizer and the ones from this morning are gone. She’s not trying to stifle him, or treat him like a child, she just knows that Monica was, well Monica. She doesn’t want to see that for her brother. She’ll never force him to stay on the meds if he truly doesn’t want to, but she can’t handle him without them, so as long as he’s under her roof, he’ll be on them. No kidnapping or stripping at gay bars and lord knows what else he’s offered his body for in a manic state. A shiver rolls down her spine at the thought, though Southside rules are different - sex is just sex, a lot of times consent isn’t necessarily truthful but more given out of fear, or being too high to say no; she never wants any of her siblings to sell their bodies. She never wants any of them to quantify their worth that way. Sure, Fiona probably could have put more money in the squirrel fund throughout the years if she had charged for her services, but sex is supposed to be fun. She’s always had it that way. On her terms, in her language, with as few strings as possible. It’s served her just fine. She’s going to make it her own way. She doesn’t need a man to hold her hand through the process.   
“Milkoviches into human trafficking now too?” Kev’s big voice filters down from their porch to the sidewalk. Fiona’s gaze follows the sound to the image of Mickey Milkovich walking down the sidewalk holding her baby brother’s hand, his other hand is raised with a stuffed fire dog grasped in it, but managing to flip Kev the bird anyway with his signature smirk.   
She wasn’t sure about this new addition to Ian’s life. A Milkovich. Could her brother be a bigger magnet for assholes? But the more he’s been around the more Ian has been smiling. He’s been laughing. Taking interest in his siblings the way he used to. He has seemed like Ian again. Not just a ghost of him. And the way he described him this morning, the way his entire face lit up, his eyes sparked with the kind of life she can’t remember seeing in them since he was fifteen. ‘Incredible’, that one word he landed on as so many things ran through his mind, trying to grasp for one word that would suffice, that would sum up the way he feels around the stocky little Southside thug. Of course that’d be the word he would choose.  
But Fiona can’t fully stifle the smile rising at the image approaching her either.   
“Kidnapping?” Kev wonders, not letting up just yet, “that a money-making scam I should be looking into?”  
“Fuck, you wanna make money from stealin’ kids you gotta steal one from fuckin’ Kenilworth or Glencoe. You know, somewhere people have money to pay ransoms. Who the fuck would kidnap a Gallagher? They’re all so fuckin’ noisy, obnoxious, fuckin’ pain in the ass.”  
“They get returned quickly that way!” Fiona shouts.  
At the sound of her voice Liam lets go of Mickey’s hand and covers the rest of the block at a run, the plastic firefighter hat bouncing on his head, a bag clasped in his hand.   
“You got time to look over the books at the bar today Mick?” registers in her head even over Liam’s voice telling her about the lady firefighter who let him switch on the sirens and lights.  
“Uh yah. You gonna pay me this time?”  
“Bottle of JD work?”  
“No. Cash works.”  
“Come on man, you’ve seen the books. I don’t have cash.”  
“Better find some then. I’ll be down there in an hour,” he stops at the gate. Looking unsure of whether he’s welcome to come further. Deciding to lean against it nonchalantly and light a smoke.  
She swats Liam’s butt, tells him, “go wash up and tell Debbie to put the lasagne in the oven,” watching over her shoulder as he disappears inside before she turns her attention towards Mick in time to see him nod at her brother through the window, “some kind of open house at the fire station or what?”  
“Nah,” taking a slow drag, watching her in that creepy way Milkoviches seem to study their prey while they decide it’s worth, “just stopped to get some information for Ian.”  
“For Ian?” she’s taken aback for a moment, “he asked you to?”  
“No,” shrug, “seems like something he’d be good at.”  
“Uh,” she snorts out a harsh laugh, “maybe if he wasn’t mentally ill.”  
His gaze stays calm, still appraising his prey, “he’s not. He has a mental disorder that he is managing.”  
“With a shit ton of help,” defenses rising.  
“I know that. So does he.”  
“He can’t take care of himself,” she spits it out without realizing it was even something she thought about her brother.   
“Have you let him?”  
“I… I’m not having this conversation with you,” venom rising in her voice. She’s not sure if it’s just her protective nature, or her severe distrust and dislike of all things Milkovich. The one family in the Southside that all Southsiders can agree is fucked up. Fucked up beyond just the usual things around here. It took some pressing, but she finally got it out of Ian that the abortion for Mandy back in high school, it was their father. She nearly went down there with a shotgun herself and took the old man’s head off. As much as she hated Mandy in a lot of ways, she also saw a less fortunate version of herself in those black-lined heavily mascaraed eyes. As much as Fiona felt like she was given the short end of the stick with Frank and Monica, and they had gone through their trying times; Frank always found his way out of the gutter at exactly the moment Fiona’s back was starting to break. Those rare times that he actually stepped up to the plate of fatherhood, those were her lifelines. She’d never admit it, ever, especially not to Frank. He didn’t deserve to know it, but sometimes his drunken presence was oddly enough the one thing that kept her sane.   
“Don’t then,” he shrugs, “means fuck all to me to sit here and talk to you. But it might mean somethin’ to Ian.”  
Fucking prick. Who is he to decide what Ian wants or needs? Who is he to decide what’s best for Ian?   
A guy who loves him, that’s who. The words practically form themselves in his eyes. A closed off, shut down, nonemotional Milkovich looking right at her with so much tender yearning at the mention of her brother. He doesn’t have to vocalize a single word, but he’s standing at the gate telling her that he’s right here, he’s not going anywhere and he’s going to do every single thing possible to support her brother. That Fiona doesn’t have to do this alone anymore. He can help, without her asking, without even offering. Hasn’t he done that already? In just the short months they’ve been spending time together he’s already shown interest in Ian’s wellbeing. He’s shown interest in the younger siblings. Fiona isn’t too keen on Carl knowing how to make a shiv, but she is somehow relieved in knowing that Debbie learned some self-defense from a thug who has probably seen just about every scenario possible in this neighborhood. And survived to talk about it. Or not talk about it, he’s not exactly an open book.   
“How much research you do?” she wonders suddenly.  
“On bipolar?” he takes a slow drag, exhaling through his nose while she nods. He shrugs, “read some shit. Talked to Mandy.”  
A heavy sigh parts her lips. That’s not very clear, but she’s getting the clear impression that he’s spent hours combing through information online and digging into his sister’s head to get the personal impact on Ian. His own unique tics. Maybe the ones that sometimes she just shrugs off as ‘Monica’ in her own mind. Hurricane Monica. Coming out of nowhere with no warning. Touching down in their lives for just long enough to feel good. Feel whole. Feel loved. And then disappearing on the horizon in a swirl of blonde hair, a gratingly happy voice and an over exuberant wave, leaving nothing but broken pieces behind.   
His focus shifts, something in his stance, in his eyes as he scans her over once more. She’s no longer his prey. They’ve come to an understanding, a silent understanding of one another’s role in Ian’s life. It feels, Fiona can’t believe it, but already feels like trust.   
He pulls the gate shut, with himself on the outside, stubbing out his cigarette and telling her, “decide how much you want to charge me, I’ll probably be stayin’ here more often than not. And I ain’t gonna freeload,” with a nod as he sets off down the street with his confident, cocky strut and a stuffed animal in his FUCK fingered grip. Fiona might snicker at the odd combination of softness and strength, but she realizes so quickly and so certainly that it fits. It is exactly what is inside of that spark plug of a man who has already fallen in love with her brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another cycle the show refuses to break is Fiona's self-destructive ways and shitty relationships. And since I'm in the mood to break cycles, whether realistic or not, I'm breaking a few of hers too. One of the things I really found myself missing in the later seasons was her protectiveness of her younger siblings, so I'm bringing that back for this.   
> The relationship that was forming between Fiona and Mickey in the show was very intriguing to me. She didn't fully trust him, but she was starting to respect him at the very least.


	19. You Look Good In Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow Dancing

You Look Good In Red

The music is a gentle hum throughout his body. The lights dim, slowly blinking, fading, swirling around the club. Mickey is soft, pliable, willing against his chest. Under his hand on his lower back. Pressed as close as humanly possible, he leans his face down into the side of Mickey’s head, picking up the scent of the rust colored wig, he angles his face into his neck instead. Finding and inhaling the deeply human, deeply connected scent that is Mickey Milkovich. His body becomes pins and needles, floating on a cloud, gently flying from cloud to cloud in a warm summer sky. Nothing frantic about the flying. Just a gentle slow soaring, warmth in his chest. Spreading his wings and taking flight. But staying right here, right here against Mickey, against Michaela. Fuck, if he knew this was possible to feel he’d never have denied the meds in the beginning.  
This is the first time they’ve been back in a few weeks. Mickey was denying he needed the outlet anymore, but he was so fucking unbearable on Friday nights. Pacing around with a snarky edge to his every word. Dripping with sarcasm and restrained anger. That finally Ian told him to get to the club or find somewhere else to stay on Fridays. This is Mickey’s stress relief. And Ian gets it. He knows, the guy’s life is stress. This is the one diamond in the rough. Though he tried his best to convince Ian that being with him was the only stress relief he needed, and Ian of course thought it was sweet, but he needs Michaela. He needs that night every week where he can fully immerse himself in music, where he can show his true talents and passions without judgment. Even more so than at Ms Bodnar’s. Entertaining the old lady is fun, lighthearted, Mickey loves it; but it’s just not the same. This elegant, well-mannered, perfectly postured, otherworldly woman is the skin that Mickey is most free in. Someday that skin will transfer, someday he won’t need the glitz and glamour. But for now, Ian won’t see him give this up.   
Waking up every single morning with Mickey in his arms. It is all Ian can do to get out of bed. But not for the disorder, not for the depression, not for the worthlessness. It is all he can do to get out of bed because that, right there with Mickey’s warmth and flesh pressed against his, that is where Ian feels most at home.   
Mickey didn’t really say much about the firefighter idea. Just gave him a few informational pamphlets with some guy’s card. Some fire chief, he grunted something about how he knew Ian was bipolar and he still wanted to meet with him. He looks at the card every single day at least once. Debating, is this the day? Is this the one? There’s so much to consider before even taking the first step. He needs to be an absolute rock before he can make a career out of something that high stress. He needs to be completely at home in his own head. Every single day. Every single moment. He’s not sure he can work those kinds of shifts without throwing his schedule off. A schedule that is so important. Adrenaline could be his enemy, while adrenaline has to be a friend to anyone in an emergency response team. But the physical demands of the job, those would certainly be a positive on his body. He’s always kept himself in top shape, always stuck to a work-out plan. Keeping the relationship stronger now than ever, knowing physical activity is his best stress reliever. He knows his body will respond under pressure. It’s just his head. His head is the wild card.  
Fuck. It’d be so purposeful. It’d be so fulfilling. It would be something he could be proud of. It’s not Westpoint. But it’s service, service that can make him feel like he has a place on this Earth, in this neighborhood. Fuck. If he could just get himself to make that call. To open up, reach out to this fire chief, ask the tough questions, admit the insecurity and worry that comes with his disorder. A fire chief, someone who has been doing it for years, half his life, he’d be exactly the right person to talk to, get into depth with. If he’s willing to sit down and meet him, it could be just the push he needs to get started on a life. A real life. Not just living in his childhood home, managing a diner during the weekdays which gives him a paycheck that isn’t that bad, a sense of self-sufficiency. But no true meaning, no true purpose that he’s always searched for. Always wanted the security of knowing that he means something in this life. That he’s making the most of what he has, what he’s been given. Not just for himself, but for other people.  
And for Mick. If he could have a true career, a true opportunity to take control of his life. A means to support them both. Maybe even get them out of the Southside. Get them into a more accepting part of town. Get Mickey out from under his father’s thumb. A place where he could embrace his talents, take charge of his freedoms. He buries his face further into this man’s neck, wanting the world for him. Wanting every single part of the known universe for him. Wanting every single part of the unknown universe at his fingertips. Fuck, he wants to be one of those people that someday can just spin a globe, watch that F finger jab out and land anywhere, any place on the globe; and be able to give it to him.   
Ian is no stranger to dancing. He’s danced at clubs, parties, bars. He used to get paid to dance. Vertically and horizontally, and everywhere in between. He has danced as a sex object, as a person who feels the beat, and as an innocent child. He has danced with men, women, siblings, friends. But he has never danced like this. And he will never dance like this with anyone else on this planet. Wrapped up in each other. Flesh melting into flesh. Every single tissue and fiber in their bodies moving as one. Mickey is an extension of Ian. One he didn’t know was missing until he found it, and as soon as he found it there was no way he could live without it. Not for a moment.   
“Mick?” his voice is soft, his entire body so relaxed against this man.  
“Hmm?” he feels it rumble in his throat against his face.  
“I, um,” he’s been thinking about this for a few weeks now, but hasn’t brought it up, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”  
“Well, I’m right fuckin’ here big red. Start talkin’,” fuck, that dirty mouth coming out of that image. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so fucking gorgeous.  
He doesn’t bother raising his head, speaks into the smooth thin skin of his neck, feeling the little bit of stubble against his lips, “when is the last time you were tested?”  
“For what? Fuckin’ IQ?”  
“No,” letting a small laugh escape, knowing his breath on bare skin is racing chills down Mickey’s spine, “STDs, HIV.”  
He grunts something, shrugs.  
“I just um, maybe we could go to the clinic together sometime this week. Both get tested. And then, um,” clearing his throat, feeling a blush creeping in even though his face is hidden, “then, um, I mean I know I freaked out last time we went bare. But, um, I just, I want to feel you. All of you. Every time.”  
“Yeah?”  
Lifting his face now, gaze landing and staying on that crystal clear blue that he loves floating on. Whether it’s framed in heavy liner, sparkly shadow, and fake lashes or not, “yeah.”  
His hand sliding from Ian’s shoulder to his neck, thumb following the line of his jaw as his eyes drop to Ian’s lips and he chews gently on his own. Soft smile, the lips are red tonight. Red like a fire engine, Ian loves it. Vision rising again to lock onto Ian’s, “alright tough guy. That sounds good. That sounds real good,” closing the distance between them. Locking on and staying. The tingles starting from the contact, spreading throughout his entire body. Even his fucking toes are tingling by the time Mick leans back, that perfected smirk on his face, knowing he has Ian right where he wants him. Feeling, knowing, wanting. More, more, more. Begging with his eyes, please Mick, more.   
That half nod, ‘you want it, come and fuckin’ get it’. Ian’s breath lodges in his throat but it doesn’t matter, he’s breathing Mickey’s air now. His mouth opening against his for every inch to be explored. And Ian does. He’ll start with his mouth right now. And later, he’ll take every single inch of flesh into his mouth. He’ll taste and savor every single part of Mickey’s body. Nothing will ever sate his hunger for this man, but he’s going to try his damndest tonight.   
They don’t part until they’re both gasping for air, Mickey growling, “don’t you dare back up Gallagher.”  
“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” a laugh escaping that Mickey smiles over.   
His hand tapping Ian’s cheek, eyes brimming with lust, mentioning nonchalantly, “you look good in red,” a comment that Ian forgets as soon as his lips are against his once more.   
And doesn’t remember it until the following morning when he exits his bedroom to Carl wondering, “is that lipstick dude?”  
————  
Ian stands in front of the fire house for a full thirty minutes, staring at the door, feeling butterflies flapping excitedly in the pit of his stomach. Trying to stifle the self-doubt, reminding himself over and over, this is just a chance to ask questions. Just a chance to get a foot in the door, it doesn’t mean anything. It won’t be a rejection unless you apply.  
Thirty one minutes, a deep breath and a voice clear and sharp in his mind, overriding his own voice, telling him to just get a fuckin’ move on.   
One foot in front of the other, shoulders square, chin steady, moving forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, yes they are slow dancing. And I realized as I wrote it, that may be all I every truly wanted for these two!
> 
> Liking the confidence starting to show again in Ian's stance?
> 
> Ian is definitely understanding and supporting the artistic side of his boyfriend. And Mickey is definitely understanding and supporting the career driven side of his boyfriend.


	20. Partner, Lover, Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's Gallavich so when things are looking up, they're bound to get knocked back down. I won't knock them too far, I promise.

Partner, Lover, Family

Ian steps out of the class building with a light sigh parting his lips. The smell of Autumn in the air. The first two weeks of EMT training behind him now. The fire chief turned out to be exactly the right kind of person to have in his corner. Talking to him gave Ian the boost in confidence that he needed to get the ball rolling on this. He spent a full weekend at the fire house, riding along with not only the paramedics but also the firefighters. He got to stand on the sidelines while he watched the way they work together, how their chain of command is linked, the decision-making on the spot, and the adrenaline of working as an emergency responder. Seeing it first hand was equally exciting and terrifying, but it cemented the idea that it’s right for him. He has the potential to shine in a career like this. The first step is to pass EMT training, log enough hours to test up to the next level. He’ll have to log a certain amount of hours before he’s even considered for the fire academy. But so far, just the EMT position is intriguing and fulfilling enough that he’s already thinking about taking the route to paramedic.   
He sighs again, removing his phone from his jacket pocket, hoping to see a text from Mick. Wanting to text him something like ‘thanks for the push in this direction’ again. For like the, well, it’d be the tenth time since he’s texted it every single day after class for the last two weeks. To which he gets the middle finger emoji. He’s pretty certain it’s the one and only emoji Mickey has ever used. He’s not too fond of texting. Or of talking on the phone.   
Of course there’s nothing from Mickey. He smiles anyway, unlocking the screen to a text from Mandy that makes his heart lurch a little, ‘Call me. Now’.   
Heart fully lodged in his throat by the time the phone starts ringing, holding it in a grip that has grown sweaty. She’s never urgent. Her texts are usually random thoughts, mostly dirty, throughout her day. They never cease to make Ian smile, but this one. This one is making his heart sit directly on his windpipe when she picks up without saying hello, just, “you need to come over. Like now.”  
He swallows hard, but can’t get that lump to go down. He already knows, without her saying a word. It’s about Mickey. His head starting to race with what-if’s, could this have been job related? Did he get shot? Did he get busted? Is he in prison or a hospital? A morgue? Bile rises in the back of his throat as he breathes into the phone.  
Reading his mind, she offers, “it’s Mickey. He’s mostly okay, he’s here. But you need to get here. Now. I love you,” she hangs up.  
Fuck. His feet won’t move. His heart won’t dislodge itself from his throat. His vision won’t clear. Mandy only ever says those three words when something is terribly wrong. She used to use them all the time when he was unmedicated and acting crazy. When he was always throwing himself into the deep end nearly drowning, coming back up sputtering and choking, gasping for air that just wouldn’t come. Then her words would register in his ears, through the fog of mania or depression or whatever was choking off his air at the time. She’d say, ‘I love you Ian, let’s get you some help’, and he’d either nod but not get out of bed, or he’d holler at her, tell her there was nothing wrong with him, he didn’t need help. Sometimes he wonders why the hell she clung so tightly to their friendship when he did nothing in return for her. And after he OD’ed, it was her face hovering over him in the hospital, it was her voice calmly telling him, ‘I love you Ian. Don’t ever fucking do this again. We’re getting you help. You need it.’ It was that final straw on her already fractured back, it was clear as day in her eyes, it was what it took for him to finally believe it.   
‘He’s mostly okay. Get here.’  
Mostly okay. Mostly okay. Mostly okay. It becomes the mantra in his head. The broken record. The never-ending reel. The ride on the L. The couple blocks east to Mandy’s. He takes them at a run, ‘mostly okay’ picking up pace when he does. Shouting in his ears, shouting through the blood rushing in his ears as he takes the apartment steps three at a time. Booming and echoing in his head as he bolts down the hall. Only subsiding slightly as he pushes the door open.   
Mandy’s hands landing on his chest immediately, ordering, “take a breath. I don’t know what happened,” she admits, her eyes wide with fear or anger or both, “nothing he’s saying is making any sense. But he won’t let me take him to the hospital. He told me he just needs to sleep it off, he said dad found his stuff, but I don’t know what that means. And he won’t tell me. He has a concussion and he’s so pale, but,” her voice disappears in his head. Taking her hands to squeeze them gently as he removes them from his body and steps around her.   
The tiny bit of breath he was holding in his lungs escapes as he pushes the bedroom door open and his eyes take in the scene. Mickey’s lying on his side, back towards the door. He never sleeps with his back towards the door. There’s blood crusted in his hair, some fresh red fluid leaking around it, seeping through the short hair at the back of his head, trailing through it like a comb. He’s breathing. Ian can see that he’s breathing. But he can also see that it’s cut off, painful, like he can’t physically manage to take a deep breath. It sounds ragged like he’s just run a marathon.  
“Mickey?” he whispers, his feet leading him to the bed.  
His grunt is muffled and distant sounding. Left hand rising to his face, palm covering his ear, blocking out whispers that must sound like shouts to him. There’s a vise on Ian’s heart, his lungs, his stomach as he appraises his still form. Right hand on the pillow by his face, swollen, the entire thing, skin split, torn to shreds. Fuck, the nail beds are discolored. His face, puffy, bruised, cut. Raccoon bruising around his eyes the part Ian is most concerned over. Skull fracture rolling around in his head, racing though all the signs of concussion he’s always been so familiar with on account of Carl. His appraisal doesn’t make it beyond those two things, kneeling next to Mandy’s bed, his finger lands on Mickey’s cheek and his lids flutter open. Just long enough to reveal pupils so dilated that his crystal blue gaze is no more than a thin line on the horizon.   
“Fuck,” he gets to his feet quickly, making for Mandy, taking her out of the room to tell her, “we need to get him to a hospital. Whether he wants to or not. I’m calling an ambulance.”  
Her hand darts out of her side, grabbing his phone before he can, “no. We can’t afford that. No way. He’d lose his shit if a couple of paramedics came rushing in here to take him off on a gurney. He loses his shit it’ll only make the head injury worse. You’ve never seen him like this, he’ll fight it until he passes out. And he’ll hate you when he wakes up,” her jaw is set in determination, “Mickey won’t be forced into this. He has to feel like he still has control.”  
“But he doesn’t have control. This is serious. There could be internal…”  
“I know that,” she hisses.  
“Fuck,” his hand flies up to his face, combing through his hair, wanting to wrestle her for the phone and just make the call, “what then?”  
She shrugs, her eyes fill with tears that she blinks away, “dump some Benadryl down his throat, steal a wheelchair, and take him in.”  
Ian always thought his family was stubborn, unwilling to ask for help; but Milkovich pride is like the Great Wall of China. They have nothing, they’ve never had anything, but fuck if they’ll accept help.   
“Okay,” he storms back into the bedroom, taking a knee beside Mickey, “hey,” whisper soft, watching his eyes flutter open for a split second, “can you move?”  
Swallow hard, words barely audible, but stubborn as fuck, “‘course I can.”  
“Okay good. We’re leaving then. We’re going back to my place. Mandy’s got to get to work, so we have to leave. She said we can’t stay here, her landlord is showing her apartment this afternoon and it needs to be empty.”  
This is a flat out fucking lie, and Ian feels guilty for it, but he knows the only way to get him out of this bed is to lie. Get him in the car and get driving down the road. He shouldn’t believe the lie, he should already know his sister would do anything including die for him, and never hesitate to tell her landlord to fuck off; but if Ian is right about a skull fracture then his brain is foggy enough it just might work.   
Please work, please work.   
The nod is so vague it could be a figment of Ian’s imagination but Mickey starts moving. Fuck, it’s painful to watch. Painful to hear. To witness. Ian isn’t certain where he can touch him that won’t hurt. When he reaches out, Mickey swats his hand away, eyes staying plastered shut as he finally gets himself into a seated position. Only opening every so often to gather his surroundings. Ian slides his shoes back on and when he stands he sways. This time not shoving Ian away when he supports him. Every movement is a wince, a muffled groan, a sharp gasp, a hitched breath. Jesus fucking christ, only this stubborn fucking asshole would be walking right now. Anyone else, anyone else on the fucking earth would accept a ride in the ambulance, or a stolen wheelchair.   
At least there’s a fucking elevator. And at least Mandy is walking on the other side of him, arm around his hips, trying to keep him steady. At least her car is parked right outside the front door. And the exertion of this kind pushes him to unconsciousness as soon as he’s slumped against Ian’s shoulder in the backseat of the car, “fuck Mandy, what the fuck happened?”  
“I don’t know,” her voice shakes, “Colin and Iggy carried him in, dumped him on the bed, didn’t tell me a fucking thing. They were talking about where to bury the body on their way out. I don’t know,” she throws her hands off the wheel in exasperation for a moment, rubbing her eyes hard before taking a deep breath and focusing on the road, “the only thing I could pry out of Mickey was that Dad found his stuff. I don’t know what stuff he’s talking about. Only thing Dad would beat him this bad over is if he lost a kilo, couldn’t collect, or if Dad found out he’s gay,” her voice shakes again, “Mickey has never lost a fuckin’ speck, he’s never not collected, so…” choking off, swatting with one hand at her tearstained cheeks.   
His stuff. His stuff. Rage and deep sadness rise hard inside of Ian’s body. His drag stuff. That’s what he found. His drag stuff. He feels his breath catch, forcing the words to remain inside. If Mandy doesn’t know what stuff, it’s not his place to tell her. Fuck, his hand rises to his mouth, pressing a knuckle against his lips for a moment, forcing them to stay closed before turning his head to kiss the top of Mickey’s. Taking a deep breath through his nose, ingesting him once again, ingesting the calm and strength that this man’s presence affords him.   
Nothing is sacred in this life.   
Mickey is completely limp by the time Mandy pulls into the ER. At least they won’t have to fight with him to get in a wheelchair, or on a gurney. But the worry and fear in Ian’s stomach is only raging harder at the feel of his deadweight against his shoulder. He’s still breathing, his pulse is weakening, but he’s still alive.   
“Get someone,” he tells Mandy, his voice strangely steady as his fingers remain on the pulse point on the neck of his lover.   
Not wanting to let go when they come for him. Not wanting to let go of his limp body as they gently but hurriedly remove him, pulling him onto a gurney. Not wanting to let go, but knowing he has to. He’s on autopilot now. Remembering all the times he’s been in the hospital before. Chasing a gurney with a bloody Monica on it, after she slit her wrists. Following behind a wheelchair containing Frank with his ramblings about medicare and the doctors getting richer even when their patients die. Walking beside Carl, acting as his crutch, as he stumbled in on a broken ankle.   
He’s numb as he parks Mandy’s car out of the loading and unloading lane. He’s numb as he walks across the lot, not feeling the dry Autumn breeze on his face. Numb as he reenters the ER, scanning the room for Mandy. She’s standing at the desk, staring at the receptionist with a weird blank look on her face. There are forms in front of her. He suddenly feels the indignation that Frank has always voiced over the healthcare system. Her brother was just brought in barely alive and they want his insurance information. Immediately. They don’t want to let her have even a mili-second to process any of this. All they want is to know if, when, and how they’ll be paid for their services. A place that is full of people who chose this path to help. To help. To fucking help. And the bureaucracy is killing it.   
He feels himself stop beside her, swiping the papers off the desk, calmly looking at the receptionist with a shrug. It’s not her fault. It’s just her job. Taking Mandy by the shoulders to guide her down the hall. Where he knows there is a waiting room. The waiting room for admitted patients. The one that isn’t full of people screaming for their turn, full of druggies coming down off their high while they wait for service, full of drunks pissing themselves as they wait for their next banana bag. Crying colicky babies, children with sprained ankles, teenagers with dislocated shoulders from school sports. This waiting room, this is not the one they’ll wait in.  
He sits, he pats the empty chair next to him. He waits in silence with Mandy’s skinny hand gripped tight in his. He waits until a nurse stops at the desk, he waits until he hears her say something about a new admittance with a head injury. Passing the ID to the man behind the computer. He waits until she leaves. He waits until the man enters some things into the system. He stands. He takes Mandy with him.   
“Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich,” he hears himself say to the man.  
The man looks up, “and you are?”  
“His partner.”  
Face blank, no response.  
“Lover.”  
Nothing.  
“Family, you know?”  
A half nod, “he’s stable, being admitted for further testing and observation. We need these filled out,” he passes the same forms across the desk.   
“What room?” shoving the papers back across the surface.  
“I can’t let you see him yet.”  
“If he’s stable, then you can let us see him.”  
The papers make their way back towards them, “after the CT scan. Then you can see him.”  
“Immediately after the CT scan,” fingers tracing along the edge of the clipboard that the papers are attached to.  
“Of course,” the man gives the clipboard a final push towards Ian’s hand with a nod.   
Mandy sighs relief and seems to fall into the chair. Leaning forward into her hands to cry. He feels his hand rise, he feels her bony spine and shoulder blades beneath his palm. Rubbing up and down, up and down while his right hand starts filling out Mickey’s information. His hands aren’t shaking. His mind is strangely clear. His movements strangely calm as he finishes the paper work, sends Fiona a text, leans to his left to kiss Mandy’s head, rises to his feet and brings the clipboard back to the desk. Stands there and stares as the man scans over the documents. Stands there and stares as he lifts the phone to his ear. As he clears two visitors to room 307. Stands there and listens to the directions the man offers though he doesn’t need them. Feels himself nod, feels himself go back to Mandy, hears his voice telling her a room number. Feels himself walk, get on the elevator, feels Mandy’s hand once again in his grasp as they stop on the third floor, entering an empty room.   
A nurse looking up at the sound of their footsteps, she’s entering some things in the system, her smile is gentle and reassuring, “Mikhailo Milkovich’s family?”  
He feels himself nod.  
“He’s in CT. It should only be a little while longer. Feel free to wait in here, or in the waiting room down the hall.”  
“Here,” he hears himself respond. Steering Mandy’s shoulder towards the chair by the window. Standing beside her, staring at the door. Waiting. The nurse leaves. She comes back. She brings a second chair with her, setting it next to Mandy. She smiles reassuringly again, this time reaching out to pat his arm before she leaves. He doesn’t sit.   
He doesn’t sit while he watches the gurney being rolled into the room. He doesn’t sit while he listens to the doctor going over the results of the scans. A skull fracture, a ruptured spleen, fractured hand, fractured ribs. He doesn’t sit while the doctor talks about dizziness, mild confusion, headaches, nausea. He doesn’t sit while the doctor talks about a seventy-two hour admittance for observation before they’ll reevaluate. While he talks about a sedative and pain-killers. He doesn’t sit until he’s left the room. Until the nurse has adjusted the flow on the IV. Until she’s left the room.   
He doesn’t sit until he looks at Mickey’s face, until he brushes a finger across his cracked lip, until his eyelids flutter open for a split second. Just long enough to make contact with Ian’s. Just long enough to see a speck of crystal clear blue surface and understand he’s still floating before it disappears again.   
Now he sits. He sits with a heavy breath, feeling fully now the weight that is starting to lift just slightly off his chest. Now he sits. Now he sits and he feels. He feels it all. All the emotions that have been broiling just under his surface since he heard Mandy’s voice telling him, ‘it’s Mickey’. He feels it all. Every single part of it. And it rises in the tears that are streaming freely down his cheeks now. It rises when his hands cover his face and he leans into the bed beside his lover’s hip. It rises when he hears Mickey breathing, slowly, calmly, evenly. It rises when he lifts his head, taking Mickey’s left hand in his own, pressing his lips against his split knuckles and whispering, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. The tired old Milkovich monster raises his ugly head. Just a means to an end my friend.
> 
> The positive is now we've seen that Ian can keep his head in an emergency situation.
> 
> I think the partner, lover, family line would never have the right effect without the amazing eyebrows of Noel Fisher, but it felt like a good time to flip it. 
> 
> There are definitely varying degrees of spleen rupture and skull fracture - we're rolling with the mild side, mild enough to not require surgery - just a few days of monitoring.


	21. Krasunia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morphine...

Krasunia 

Morphine. Aah, morphine. Floating on a fluffy white cloud, surrounded by birds singing, sunshine warm and gentle on his skin. Morphine.   
Real world sort of filtering in. The beeps of machines. The drone of a constant electrical buzz. The white ceiling. The dark of his eyelids. Constantly a hand in his. A narrow, skinny cold one familiar from his childhood. A fidgety, finger-drumming, clammy one familiar from his wedding day. And the big, strong, calloused, steady-gripped one that he wakes up to every morning.   
Voices. Words starting to grow more clear.  
Pain throbbing through his head, spreading like a spider web. Morphine. Aah, morphine.  
“He’s staying with us,” bossy fuckin’ Fiona.  
“He don’t live there. You ain’t family,” Iggy sounds high as fuck.  
“He’s staying in my apartment, that’s final.”  
“Where’s he gonna sleep there sis? You only got one bed.”  
“Yeah, well he’s not staying with your dumb ass. You don’t have the slightest…”  
“I’m wife. I do duties. He’s hungry, I cook. He’s tired, I fluff pillows. He’s thirsty, I get water. He shits, I wipe. He…”  
“His hand isn’t amputated, just broken,” Fiona again, “our house. He is family and he stays with us. There’s always someone home. And no illegal activities, not many anyway.”  
“No. Too loud at Gallagher house. I do duties. My place. Is quiet. Is relaxing. Is what he needs.”  
“No. No Milkoviches, no Russian whores. Us!”  
White ceiling. Fuck, no one has ever argued over who gets to keep him before. If he could get his mouth to work he’d tell them all to fuck off. Fuckin’ Terry couldn’t even beat him bad enough to land him in intensive care. At least there, it’d be restricted visitors. What the fuck kind of room is this, all this fuckin’ space for all these dumb fucks to hang out in here?   
Blink. Hand squeezing harder. Blink. Green eyes leaning over his face. Blink. Foggy, but coming into focus. A big idiot fuckin’ grin. An ice chip being forced into his mouth. Darkness of eyelids. Morphine. Fuck.   
If Svetlana is here, where’s demon spawn? She better not have brought him here. He has no business being in a hospital, let alone seeing his dad like this. Fuck. She has to be smarter than that.   
“Well I ain’t wipin’ any asses anyway.”  
The last thing Mickey remembers is seeing Colin’s ugly fuckin’ mug leanin’ over him saying somethin’ about, ‘he’s dead’. And Iggy’s dumbass sayin’, ‘we’ll bury him down at the docks’. Then Colin, ‘acid man, always acid’, before he lifted Mickey onto his shoulder ignoring his cries of protest and pain, adding ‘dump him at Mandy’s first, then decide’.   
Fuckin’ idiots.   
Ceiling. Blink. Hand. Squeeze. Green eyes. Blink.  
“Jesus Christ, he doesn’t need his ass wiped. He needs somewhere quiet, where someone is always home for a few days or weeks. Or whatever, but I’m not fucking arguing about it anymore!”  
Green eyes. Fuck, he can’t stop staring at those eyes. Another ice chip forced into his mouth. Another dopey smile. A fingertip brushing over his lips, lids hiding the green, and the feel of his lips. Lips on lips, gently. Barely brushing the surface, softer than the flapping of butterflies wings. But there. And Mickey can feel it. He can feel it in every single cell in his being. And fuck, it feels good. Even if it’s in a room full of fuckin’ people. He doesn’t give a fuck anymore. Only thing he cares about is that face, those eyes, those lips. That man. Fuck.   
He leans out. Mickey blinks. Finally opens his mouth, just to have another ice chip jabbed into it. Fuck, he just wants to tell everyone to fuck off. Everyone but that damn ginger idiot who keeps grinning at him. Fucker.   
“Okay, everyone out except sister and partner,” an overly cheery voice sings out.  
Partner? Really? Interesting.  
“I’m wife. I stay.”  
“Fine, wife too.”  
Oh Jesus. Ex-wife.  
“Everyone else out,” the sound of shuffling feet, muffled conversations. Mickey can’t look, can’t pry his eyes off those incredible green ones that are still hovered over his face, “ma’am, ma’am, excuse me. Who are…”  
“I’m his grandmother. My Mikhailo, Yangoliatko,” angel. Fuck, good thing no one else here speaks Ukrainian, “krasunia,” her wrinkled face appears over his, a sloppy wet old lady kiss landing square on his lips. Old lady probably is crazy enough to think she actually is his grandmother.   
“Krasunia,” Svetlana snorts. Fuckin’ bitch. He forgot about her.  
But old Ms Bodnar won’t let that snort ride, “beautiful, beautiful, nothing more beautiful than this boy.”  
Fuck. But he can’t help it when his lips start to curl up into a smile, at exactly the moment those green eyes appear again. Concern showing through the relief in his expression, “how you feelin’?”  
“Morphine,” his voice comes out all crusty like it hasn’t been used for a few days.  
“About that,” the nurse chimes in, “we’ll be lowering your dose,” she reaches over to the machine next to him. The blood pressure cuff clamping down on his arm, “good to see the blue of your eyes. They’re beautiful.”  
“You see? Krasunia. Beautiful. Krasunia Mikhailo.”  
Svetlana snorts again, but the nurse wonders, “comfortable?”  
“Sure.”  
“Pain level? 1-10.”  
“Fuck if I know.”  
“Alright, I’ll ask that question again when some of the morphine wears off. Any double vision or blurriness?”  
The line of questioning continues for what feels like hours. Then the fuckin’ doctor comes in and rambles on about side effects of skull fracture, ruptured spleen, all that horse shit. Everybody else in the room is hangin’ off his every word, but Mickey can’t focus on anything other than Ian’s face. And the feel of his hand wrapped tight in his. He’s still rambling about the hand stuff, and wanting to get him up and moving this afternoon. What the fuck day is it?   
“Sunday.”  
“Didn’t think that was out loud.”  
“It’s normal to have some mild confusion, short term memory loss. We’ll get you moving a little bit at a time. Run through some cognition tests, we’ll do another CT scan before you can be discharged. But you’re stuck here for at least another day, more likely two or three.”  
“Fuck, I can’t afford…”  
“Money, money,” Ms Bodnar sighs, “money is not a problem Yangoliatko. Health,” her cold gnarly hand clenching down on his and Ian’s, “health is the only concern,” hand rising and falling, patting hard against theirs. Making herself clear that money will not be an issue, and she will not hear another word about it.  
Fuckin’ old lady. Stubborn as a goddamned mule. She smiles at him with her worn down teeth, then orders the hospital staff, “leave us now. My grandson needs his rest. Tell the others to leave as well, they can come back later,” she waves them off with her bent-up hands.   
The doctor’s mouth is hinged open, staring at her for a moment before he gives in, “okay. Take a rest, we’ll get you out of bed in an hour.”  
“Make it two,” she calls after them. Stubborn fuckin’ mule of a tiny hunched over old lady, “you two - out,” she waves off Svet and Ian, “I need Lialechka and Yangoliatko to myself.”  
Mandy, why’s she so quiet? Ian’s hand gives one more tight squeeze before he and Svet head to the hallway. She sits her little old lady butt down next to Mickey’s hip, patting the bed beside her for Mandy, “Lialechka,” my doll, “sit.”  
She does as she’s told, but not before she leans down to press her lips against Mickey’s forehead. She’s refusing to speak, knowing it’ll make her cry, and Mandy hates crying like a little bitch in front of anyone, especially over her brother.   
“Your father is dead,” old lady’s getting right down to business, “no love lost. Nadiya,” kissing her pointer finger before pressing it against Mickey’s forehead, then doing the same to Mandy, “she had a few things set aside for her children. I’ve managed to keep them hidden from Terry all these years, but now I want you to know about it,” she pulls what looks like a safe deposit box key out of her giant purse that Mickey is certain contains all of life’s secrets in it’s dark depths. And a never-ending supply of butterscotch candies.   
She gives the key to Mandy, “we’ll go on Monday. She has a box for each of her children, but I’m letting you two in charge of these things,” she waves her hand in the air towards the door, “decide for them. Maybe keep them hidden until they’re ready. Maybe not,” she shrugs. Watching Mickey’s face for a long moment before she sighs, “Ya zavzhdy budu poruch,” I will always be there for you, “Ya tebe kokhayu,” I love you. Repeating it to Mandy. Her gnarly old hand reaches back into her bag of tricks, removing a framed photo. Tears immediately spring to Mickey’s eyes that are already feeling strained, the image is fresh as though the day was yesterday. Nadiya sitting at the piano, her head turned, neck craned to watch her two youngest children with wide smiles on their faces as they dance around next to her hand in hand.   
Fuck. His hand rises to wipe at his face, only to discover it’s bound in a cast. He looks at it for a moment like it’s a foreign object. Then feels hands, two soft, cold, skinny fingered hands wiping the tears off his cheeks for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if the Ukrainian is used wrong, my only source is the internet.  
> Krasunia = beautiful Yangoliatko = angel Lialechka = doll
> 
> I think Colin was a brother - I couldn't keep them straight, other than Iggy. For the sake of this I'm going to claim Colin as the oldest brother.
> 
> Wifely duties - I had to throw that in there.
> 
> Good enough retribution for the brothers to kill Terry? I think heat of the moment it's acceptable, we know they're no strangers to digging graves. I also think if it had been planned it would mean they were psychos, so walking in on him beating their younger brother that badly, they just acted out of pure adrenaline and defense.


	22. Ask Nicely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask nicely? Mickey?

Ask Nicely

As soon as Mickey moves, Ian reaches for the pillow under his right hand to re-situate it. For his efforts he receives a death stare, left hand crossing his body to grab the pillow and send it careening across the room. Fuck, he’s getting so grouchy. He’s not good at sitting still, lounging around in a hospital bed waiting for his body to heal. He’s not good at accepting help with anything. Especially when it’s his own physical abilities that are being questioned.  
“I don’t need another fuckin’ nurse around here,” he growls at Ian with his eyes narrowed.  
Mandy’s eyes rise with amusement sparkling across the surface, she had her nose buried in a text book, but now she’s half smiling as she wonders, “you gotta shit or something?”  
His head turns to shoot her a dagger or two but she just smirks, “got a tummy ache, huh? Hungry?”  
He picks up another pillow off the bed and launches it towards her, she snags it before it can contact her face, with a snicker accusing him, “you’re always grumpy, but you’re only ever this grumpy when you have a tummy ache. So which is it - hungry or poopy? You guys not at a point in the relationship yet where pooping in the vicinity of one another is acceptable, or what?”  
“We’re dudes,” he grunts at her, blowing off the notion that there’s ever a point in a relationship between two dudes where pooping would be a secretive thing, “I’m fuckin’ starving. Sick of this fuckin’ jello and whatever this shit is they keep putting on the tray claiming to be meat. Or potatoes. Or whatever the fuck this weird nondescript gooey brownish glob of…”  
“It’s chicken and dumplings according to your menu.”  
“Fuck off big red, no one asked you. The food behind bars is better than this shit.”  
“Maybe if you ask nicely I’ll get take-out on my way back over after class.”  
“Ask nicely,” he grunts, his eyes locked on the fingertips of his right hand. The doctor seemed concerned about swelling in the tissue, that maybe a cast would hinder healing, a recheck at the end of today. Saying if Mickey could keep his usage of the hand to a minimum that they’d downgrade to a split. He still hasn’t said anything about what happened, but it looks like that hand got stomped a few times with a booted foot.   
Fuck, he shudders, eyes rising quickly to find Mickey’s. His eyes look normal again, maybe a little foggy at times, but pupils are normal, reactive. The raccoon bruising will take awhile to recede. He ended up with seventeen stitches in the back of his head. Fucker’s lucky he didn’t stroke out, end up with permanent damage of any kind.   
“I’m waiting,” he drums his fingers on the ledge of the bed as he gets to his feet, pulling his jacket on.  
“Fuck. Fine. Will you please get me some real fuckin’ food for dinner tonight before I fuckin’ starve to death in this hellhole?”  
Mandy snickers again, “you never could handle being hungry. It’s exactly why you ended up in juvie, stealin’ food, ‘cause your poor little tummy was rumbly.”  
“Why the fuck you even here?” snapping at her.  
“To keep you company fuckface. Now shut the fuck up so I can study.”  
“Who the fuck studies? If you don’t know it already, you won’t know it by the time you take your little test tonight. What the fuck is it? Physics? Gimme that, you’ll never get that equation right.”  
————  
The scene doesn’t change much in the couple hours Ian is gone. They’re still bickering over her school work when he enters. But this time when Mickey looks at him, there’s a hint of a smile on his face.   
“Okay shit-for-brains,” Mandy stands with a long stretch, shoving her papers and book back in her bag, leaning to kiss her brother’s forehead, “get some sleep tonight. I’ll be back in the morning.”  
“Can’t fuckin’ wait,” he snorts at her, though his gentle hand squeeze doesn’t go by unnoticed. The language of Milkovich love. Name-calling, threats, sarcasm, and one tiny minuscule gesture of affection.  
She lands a quick kiss on Ian’s cheek on her way by, he hands her a wrapped sandwich to take with her before he unwraps the other two on the tray in front of Mickey, “Steak or pastrami?”  
He doesn’t respond until Ian’s eyes rise to meet his. The response being that cocky little head nod, the one that says ‘I know I’m hot as fuck even in this fuckin’ hospital gown and a busted up face, you know you can’t resist me, and you better get those fuckin’ lips on me now’. So Ian does. And fuck it feels good. Though Ian’s been spending the nights here, there really hasn’t been an opportunity for making out. Aside from the obvious reason of Mickey’s face being bruised and cut, giving a few days to heal before devouring him was probably necessary. And also having zero time alone. Nurses constantly in and out. Visitors constantly shuffling around the room.   
“Fuck,” he pulls away.  
“Too much?” breathing heavily.  
“No,” his eyes look dreamy and faraway, “pitchin’ a fuckin’ tent over here,” rearranging his blankets over his lap.  
“I can take care of…”  
The door swings open. Both of them letting out an exasperated, “fuck,” under their breath.   
Mickey’s frustration and grumpiness dissipate immediately when a little voice calls out, “Daddy!”  
“What’re you doin’ here demon spawn?”   
Ian can tell he wants to read Svetlana the riot act for bringing a little kid here, for letting him see his dad like this. But she just shrugs at him, “he wanted to see father. He sees father.”  
The last hard edge in his gaze fades when the kid climbs up beside him on the bed, leaning forward to study his face, “I missed you on Sunday. Mommy told me you were here. She said I couldn’t come. But I missed you too much.”  
“I missed you too demon spawn,” reaching out with his left hand to run his fingers through the kid’s blonde hair. Pulling his face closer to press his lips against his smooth forehead, inhaling a deep breath while he lingers close.   
An image. Ian sees it so clearly. So like the framed photograph on Mickey’s bedside table. Only in his image, it’s Mickey sitting at the piano. And their children dancing around with huge smiles on their faces. Fuck, that image is attainable. If Ian stays stable, he has the opportunity for a real career. A real one. One with benefits and retirement plans. One that could provide for a family.   
It’s late by the time they leave. Mickey looks tired, but he doesn’t seem to want to watch them go. So they keep lingering, until Yev’s eyes start drooping where he’s tucked into his dad’s side. Reading the book he brought for like the hundredth time. Mick’s voice is getting crusty, like it’s the most he’s ever spoken without stopping in his life.   
“We go home now,” Svetlana announces, “give father a kiss,” she watches the little boy land kisses all over his dad’s face, then she leans down to kiss his temple, “I come back tomorrow. I bring son. I bring lunch.”  
Ian hasn’t been around her much, Mickey rarely says anything about her, but he kind of likes her. He likes how direct she is. She seems very no-nonsense. He knows the relationship between her and Mickey isn’t always great, and there was absolutely no way they ever should have been married; but they seem like they’ve built something resembling a friendship. Maybe only for the sake of the kid, but it’s working.  
His eyes linger on the door once it’s closed. Unmoving for a long time, long enough that Ian reaches out to pat his leg, “tired?”  
“Yeah,” his fingers lace through Ian’s, “look, you don’t gotta stay here. You should go sleep in a real bed.”  
“Nope, not getting rid of me,” he smiles, raising their entwined hands to his lips.  
“Yeah, well I’m fine. And you need to take care of yourself too, so…”  
“Still not getting rid of me. I’m staying on schedule. That’s not a concern.”  
“That chair man, that can’t be comfortable.”  
He shrugs, wanting to say something corny like ‘watching you sleep is the only comfort I need’, but he knows he’ll get a middle-fingered response.   
“Alright, take your fuckin’ jacket off,” as he starts repositioning himself, sliding over to the far side of the hospital bed, “and your fuckin’ shoes,” patting his hand on the mattress beside him.  
“Come on Mick, then you’ll be uncomfortable. You’re the one who needs…”  
“Shut the fuck up ginger. I ain’t arguin’,” slapping his hand down again, eyebrows risen to the height of his forehead.   
Sighing in defeat, “alright,” stepping out of his shoes, “but if you get uncomfortable…”  
“Shut the fuck up and get over here.”  
There’s no way in hell Ian will deny him any further. Settling in next to him, waiting for him to make himself comfortable against Ian’s chest. Lips against the top of his head, leaning to bury his nose in his soft silky hair. Taking in the scent of his man that is powerful enough to exist over that of the hospital odors. Ian could live in that scent, spend every moment of every day with that scent lingering on his own flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have any notes for this chapter - just a fluffy little image or two.


	23. Ukrainian Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting some of Mickey's backstory through Ms Bodnar.  
> A conversation between Ian and Mandy.

Ukrainian Lullaby

“He’s his mama that one,” the old lady reaches out to trail a bent pointer finger over Mickey’s U-UP fingers, “too much so. His mama. She was fire and Terry was a wool blanket. Always trying to stifle that flame.”  
He was supposed to be discharged this morning, but they sent him for one more CT scan and decided to keep him for another day. One more day to monitor the spleen. Just a precaution. Just another dollar. Ian’s not going to let Mickey pay this bill alone, but he has no idea how they’ll scrape together the cash for it either. Trying not to think of that, trying to keep Mickey from thinking about that, knowing it’ll only increase his stress. Stress and head injuries don’t mix.  
“How did you know his mom?” Ian wonders, finally realizing that this old woman is a wealth of knowledge about Mickey. And Mickey’s mother, he won’t ask the important questions, the ones that will pry too far into Mickey’s life. Those are the ones he needs to answer when he’s ready.   
“Nadiya. Oh Nadiya. She worked for me at the flower shop. She was sixteen when she started. Oh my heavens, she could make the most exquisite florals. Without any training at all. She was a natural. A natural at everything. Such an artist. She was so alive. So beautiful. Krasunia,” she smiles, her warm mocha eyes misting over at the rising memories while her fingers keep tracing the letters on Mickey’s left hand. They’ve been watching him sleep for about an hour, he was pretty restless during the night last night. Unable to get comfortable, antsy, fidgety. When the doctor told him he wanted to keep him another night Ian thought he was going to spontaneously combust. Those pretty eyes flaring with anger, body immediately rigid, fist clenched like he was going to punch his way out.   
“It rained the day he was born. It rained and rained. A beautiful summer storm. All day. Nadiya kept insisting there was time. There was time. Then suddenly she was pressing her palms into the kitchen counter saying there was no more time. He was in a hurry. And then he didn’t cry. He didn’t make a sound. He was in my hands, wide-eyed and silent. Just looking. Studying my face like I was someone he knew already. Nadiya was crying, ‘why is he silent?’, she must have thought he was stillborn. And I couldn’t even get a word out of my mouth to tell her, ‘no, he’s right here and he’s perfect’. So perfect,” she’s watching his sleeping face as she speaks, “he was such a good baby. So quiet, so sleepy. But then he started walking at seven months. And no one ever accused him of being a good boy ever again,” she smiles, “except me. I know him. He is fire. That dancing blue flame at the very center of a candle. Just like his mama,” suddenly her eyes rise, staying on Ian, “you love my Yangoliatko.”  
Ian nods, though she didn’t form it as a question.  
“You are not a wool blanket. You are the yellow flame. You encase the blue center. You dance and sway in the same rhythm. You burn together,” her eyes shift again, back to Mickey, “the older boys, they wore their bruises like badges of honor. Their father was leaving his mark on them because he loved them and wanted to see them succeed, the only way to succeed was to be tough, hard. He was preparing them. It was different with my Yangoliatko. Every bruise was his father plucking a feather from his wings. Until every feather was gone. When Nadiya passed,” she blinks a few times, “my little broken bird, he pulled away from me. Built himself back up hard-shelled and wingless. It wasn’t until he was married and had his own little Yangoliatko on the way that he came around again. He was so angry, always so wound up tight, ready to snap,” she smiles gently at the memory, “I brought him down to my old hang-out, the place we used to smoke, play music, dance until early morning. After the old shows. Vaudeville. Oh the old times were over. But a few of the old feelings remained in the air of that building. The old piano was still on the corner of the stage. The dim lights, the smokey air, the easy atmosphere. It was empty on a Tuesday night. He was still so shy, my Yangoliatko. Watching that piano out of the corner of his eye, like maybe he could make it sing by just looking at it. It was thrumming though his veins, sparking that fire in his eye. Just looking at it. Finally the place was empty. The tabs were closed. Old Joe was cleaning up the bar, chatting about the old days. And suddenly that sound rose,” her eyes close, one hand rising to cover her heart as though she’s trying to keep it in her chest. Humming a tune that Ian doesn’t know, but recognizes from the afternoons at her place.  
He can see it in his mind. So clearly. The same way the little old woman is seeing it as she hums that tune with tears slowly sliding down her wrinkled cheeks, bringing Mickey’s hand up to her lips. Continuing to hum against it until she starts singing. The lyrics are in what Ian assumes is Ukrainian. The voice is old, a little shaky and breathy, but in her day it must have been powerful, clear. Sending chills down Ian’s spine as he watches her eyes shift to Mickey’s face. His eyes open now. Calmly studying her, reverence in the depth of them. A memory so vivid in the air between them. It feels so warm, so loving. What would Mickey’s life have been like without the influence of his mother and this old woman? The only soft hands he’s ever been touched by. Ian finds himself wishing he had been able to meet Nadiya.   
Old Ms Bodnar singing in a lullaby fashion to this young man who has always been perceived as a piece of trash, a thug, a criminal. Under that is so much more.   
————  
He watches her lips as she exhales a cloud of smoke slowly in the cooling Autumn air, “can I ask you something?” passing a smoke his way.  
“How long have you known me?” he wonders, giving her a quick elbow in the ribs. Mickey’s in for some cognitive testing, so they’re taking a smoke break, hoping he’ll be in a better mood when they get back into the room.  
“Long enough to know I can ask you anything,” her eyes dart up to meet his, quickly dropping again to the toe of her boot, scuffing through the dirt on the edge of the sidewalk, “I know it’s something that isn’t your place to share, so you’ll feel weird about this, but um,” those blue eyes rising, “is Mickey the drag queen?”  
His mouth opens, he feels it open, but he doesn’t respond. How does he?  
“I mean, I’m not dumb. I suck at math and all, but I know when you met your queen and I know when my brother started hanging out with you, so… I’m only asking because, is that the stuff he was talking about? Is that the stuff Dad found?”  
“Um, he hasn’t really said…”  
“Cut the shit Ian.”  
“Fuck, okay. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s talking about.”  
“Damnit. That fucking prick. That stupid fucking prick. I need to find out where my brothers buried him so I can shit on his grave.”  
He lets her boil over for a moment, wondering, “you’re not going to make any jokes?”  
“No. Why would I?” looking at him incredulously, “believe it or not, I’ve known my brother all my fuckin’ life, so I know even better than you that he needs an outlet. I never would have thought his outlet was dressing in drag, but it all makes sense the more I think about it. He sings, doesn’t he? Piano? Is that what he does? I know he’s not one of those lip-syncing types prancing around on stage just for attention. He actually performs, doesn’t he?”  
“How come you never told me anything about your mom?”  
Her expression turns startled, slipping into confusion, “I don’t know. I guess, we just don’t talk about her. Like she’s still here, like all the time, so we don’t have to remember her anyway.”  
“And you never told me you play piano?”  
“No,” she shrugs, “I mean not like Mickey does. He’s like, I mean, you’ve seen him. I just learned because it made Mom smile, I never really liked playing, I guess, wasn’t very good at it. But he’s different. It’s different for him. His stuff, Ian? Am I right?”  
He wants to say no, he wants to avoid this topic of conversation, but there’s an open acceptance in Mandy’s eyes, a clear support and understanding. So he nods.  
“That fucker. Jesus Christ, he probably destroyed it all. He probably made him feel so bad,” her voice chokes off but when Ian reaches for her she shakes her head. She’s not going to give into tears, not now, “it made him so happy, didn’t it? I mean, to be out there performing without anyone judging him? Without anyone making him feel bad about himself. Was he beautiful?”   
There’s a strange hope in her eyes when they land on Ian’s again. He reaches out once more, this time his hand landing on her shoulder, a reassuring squeeze, “he was gorgeous. She, Michaela, was gorgeous.”  
She nods, wiping the back of her hand across her nose, “good,” a stray tear rolls down her cheek, “did she look like my mom?”  
“Exactly like her,” he answers honestly.  
When her lip trembles, he can’t take it any longer, wrapping both arms around her. Pulling her into his chest and waiting while she breathes. Silent tears being wiped off her face frantically.   
“Hey, we’ll figure this out okay?” leaning his face into the top of her head, “we’ll figure it out. Together, alright? We’ll help him.”  
Nothing vocalized, nothing needs to be. Just a quick nod before she backs out of his embrace and turns toward the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually intend for Ms Bodnar to take this full of a role, but it felt good so I went with it. 
> 
> I hope that I am doing some justice to the art form of drag. I know there are plenty of different ways to interpret the performances, and there are definitely different reasons for dressing in drag; but the overall impression I get out of it is the art and dedication behind it. For Mickey in this story, it's his way of expressing himself in a place where he's not judged and he's comfortable presenting his talents for others to enjoy.


	24. Pretty Little Southside Thug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nurse Ian - of course he would use bribery

Pretty Little Southside Thug

“Jesus Christ, would you hold still for like thirty seconds?”  
He loves watching anger furl in that ginger brow, “if you knew what you were doing, you’d be done already,”  
“If you held still l’d be done already,” leveling him with a glare, “you’re the worst patient ever.”  
“Yeah, well I’m sick of being poked and wrapped, and treated like a fuckin’ invalid. So…”  
“Yeah, well you hold the fuck still so I can check your blood pressure, do your hand therapies without bitching and I’ll suck your dick.”  
“Soundin’ better Gallagher,” feeling a smirk rising, “hope you don’t use that tactic on all your patients though.”  
“Only pretty little Southside thugs.”  
“Pretty,” he snorts.  
“Yeah. Fuckin’ pretty. Now shut the fuck up.”  
His mouth opens to respond, but he’s left wordless when those green eyes narrow. Daring him to speak. Well, if his next move is to take the blow job off the table, then he’ll keep his mouth shut. Much to his dismay. Fuck, it’s been so fucking boring sitting around.   
“Alright, let’s go,” he gets to his feet when they’re done with the hand bullshit.  
“Where? You owe me a blow job.”  
“Yeah, I never said when I’d do it.”  
“Hold on, I just…”  
His lips are against his, cutting off his words immediately. Enveloping his mouth, drawing him to his feet to pull him close. He feels the hand hover over the back of his neck for a split second, before he remembers, then it falls to his shoulder instead. The stitches are coming out soon. Itchy as fuck. Damn ginger idiot backs away as soon as all the blood in Mickey’s body has rushed to his dick.  
“Put some pants on,” throwing a pair of jeans at him on his way out the door.  
“Fuckin’ tease,” grunting under his breath, “where the fuck we goin’?”  
“You’ll find out,” half sing-song.  
Fuck, he hates that shit. Fuckin’ surprises. Fuckin’ overly happy people. Fuck.   
But when big red pushes him through the door of his sister’s apartment with a giant grin on his dopey face, he freezes. Breath catching in his throat. Unsure of what emotions are rising in his body, but tears rise with it.


	25. Every Single Part Of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian loves every single part of Mickey - and Mickey's okay with that.

Every Single Part Of You

Gently, he steps into Mickey’s back, wrapping his arms around his chest, burying his face in the side of his neck. Feeling the man’s breath hitching in his chest, trying his damndest to fight back tears. It’s not working. And Ian doesn’t mind it one bit.  
He went to the club last weekend with Mandy. Talked to a few of the other drag queens, the bartender. Now her apartment is decked out like the club. Lights, streamers, a mini disco ball. The music at a quiet thrum.   
Mandy agreed to let him use her apartment for the surprise. She’s staying at the old place with her brothers this weekend, she had some details of their father’s death and few items of their mother’s that she wanted to talk to them about anyway.   
‘You’re a lucky guy,’ one of the queens had told Ian, ‘Mickey’s one of the few good ones in this world, you hold on tight to him’.  
Mentioning that his stuff had been destroyed only made the whole group of them band together, grabbing up things from their own collections, filling up bags of make-up and accessories, wigs, shoes, panty hose and sending them along with Mandy and Ian. The dress, though, that’s one from Ms Bodnar’s old days on Vaudeville. A little mending, a little fitting and it’ll be perfect on Michaela’s form. Perfect for her personality, her performance level, her showmanship. The elegant sapphire blue dress, knee-length in the front with a tasteful amount of fringe, beaded bodice, a train that will be pinned and tucked perfectly when she puts it on. It’ll look stunning with the raven black wig and the feathered headpiece.   
The finishing touch, that’s the best part. A necklace. Hand-woven by his mother. A traditional Ukrainian piece.   
“I can’t,” his breath shakes out.  
“Hold on,” Ian interrupts, wrapping his arms only tighter. Restraining him, he took Mandy’s warning seriously, that Mickey would see this as charity and it would piss him off, “this isn’t charity. The guys down at the club, they are your friends. Consider it a get well soon gift. The dress is from Ms Bodnar. She has a a whole chest full of old dresses she wants you to go through. The necklace, that’s your mother’s.”  
“Fuck,” his voice thick with tears, “Mandy knows?”  
“Yeah. She, um, guessed based on a few conversations I’d had with her. For that, I am sorry. But I’m not sorry that she figured it out, without her knowing - that necklace would not be sitting here waiting for you. All the jewelry was left in a box for Mandy. But she wanted you to have this one.”  
“Fuck,” his right hand rises, only to stop midair, dropping back to his side. Left hand rising to rub into his eyelids.   
“And Ms Bodnar showed me how to pin up the bustle whenever you’re ready,” pressing his lips against the delicate skin of Mickey’s neck, “but only if you’re ready. And if you’re not ready, then we can just chill. But it’s just you and me here. All weekend. So you know, I’ll fuck the hell out of you either way, but I’ve never gotten a chance to fuck Michaela. And I’d love to fuck her. Whenever you’re ready.”  
A nod, hard swallow, “I’m not ready,” admitting.  
“That’s fine,” his hands find Mickey’s hips, quickly spinning him to pull him chest to chest. Keeping his body as close as possible to his own, gently swaying to the beat of the music in the darkened apartment. The lights flashing to the same rhythm. Leaning his face into his lover’s neck, a deep breath while he feels their bodies melting together as Mickey’s last effort to resist this affection dissipates. Sliding a hand up his strong back, down his arm to find his fingers. Gripping them in his own and pressing them against his slowly beating heart, “I love you Mick. Every single part of you,” lips to skin.   
His head turns against Ian’s chest, tilting up. Face to face, those breathtaking eyes reflecting the slowly changing hues of light, “I love you too firecrotch.”  
Leaning in for a kiss. Slow, tender, letting the moment and the feeling seep deeply into their souls. Knowing, fully understanding that no matter what fork in the road life takes from here on out, they both have a place to belong. To be completely, wholeheartedly, unabashedly themselves. A place for love, comfort, laughter, pain, anger, frustration; the whole fucking spectrum to grow, ebb, sway, tangle, rise, and fall. A place where it is utterly okay to be whatever the fuck they want to be, with or without a word to describe it, to purely and simply exist. In each other’s arms, hearts beating a steady rhythm of love and acceptance.   
————  
When Ian collapsed for the final time last night he thought there was no way in hell he could have anymore sex, in any position, in any way, in a long fucking time. The first round happened before breakfast. And it basically didn’t stop all fucking day. He caught Mickey’s eyes landing on the pile of gear on the couch a few times, but he didn’t push it. He’ll wait. He’ll wait months if need be.   
He rolls over with a groan on Sunday morning, noting immediately the missing body that had been wrapped in his arms when he passed out. And still wrapped in his arms when he woke for a piss in the middle of the night. And still wrapped in his arms about two hours ago when he decided to close his eyes for five more minutes. As he stretches he feels kinks, soreness, acid build-up in every single muscle in his body. Fuck, who knew sex could be such a work-out. Rubbing at his eyes, wondering if he’ll be able to walk right, sighing hard while he watches the ceiling fan spin slowly.   
A voice from the doorway, “alright fuckface, breakfast’s ready.”  
By the time his head turns, he’s already out of sight. Just getting to a seated position on the bed might as well be climbing Everest. Jesus Christ, he could have run a marathon yesterday by the way he feels. He does a quick run through in his mind, a mental checklist to make sure this pain and soreness is different from a depressive episode starting to settle. A quick run-through of his med schedule. Reassuring himself he took the right doses at the right time yesterday. Then a quick mental checklist of all the ways they used their bodies yesterday that could make him feel this fuckin’ tired today. Yes, he decides, this is all sex related. He’s laughing to himself as he drags his boxers up his legs, grabbing a t-shirt on his way out the door, “I feel like I got hit by a fuckin’ truck Mick,” when he pulls the cotton down over his skin, he realizes there are bruises on his arms, the backs of his arms where Mickey was gripping so tight during the last round last night. Looking up at him from where the pillow was cradling his head, his eyes glazed over with pleasure and exhaustion. The guy fucks like a virgin, a pornstar, and everything in between.  
Ian stops dead in his tracks when he rounds the corner to the kitchen. Breath catching in his throat, heart thudding in his ears. He was wrong. When he thought he wouldn’t be able to have sex for a long time. He was so wrong.  
“The fuck you lookin’ at?” one brow cocked.  
He can’t vocalize a damn thing. The only thing he can do is take the steps over, reaching for that face, that perfect gorgeous, absolutely fucking incredible face. He feels himself smile before he presses in, delicately, not wanting to smear that lipstick. Jesus, in the club with the dim lights is only the half of it. Mid-morning natural light, it’s the way to go with this face. The make-up is less dramatic than at the club, the wig is the exact right color now, the lips are bright red, the dress is perfect. Holy fuck.   
“Alright, tough guy,” leaning out of the kiss with that sweet cheek smack, “breakfast, meds. Sit down. Eat.”  
“Okay,” but not until he kisses him once more. He knows someday Mickey will not need the pomp and circumstance of Michaela to be comfortable with his artistic side, but for now seeing this, knowing he’ll do this, Ian knows he’ll get back to the shows eventually, when his hand is ready, when his mind is ready. And he’ll be back where he belongs. At a piano. On a stage. Performing for people who adore him, “you look really fucking beautiful,” he whispers against his face as soon as he tilts his lips away.  
“Okay, okay, sit the fuck down and eat something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, they're slow dancing again - I can't help it, the image is too fucking cute.
> 
> I'm going to throw some smutty smutty smut out there in the next bit. Well, maybe not smut, depends on how you want to define that. I prefer to call it love when it comes to these two.


	26. How Fuckin' Romantic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smuuuuuuut - or looooooooove  
> The decision is yours.

How Fuckin’ Romantic

Kid’s barely got his meds chased down before he’s back on him. Hands gentle but firm on his face, backing him up against the counter. Lips, tongue, mouth. Fuck, those kisses. He never bridles that passion, and it is so fuckin’ hot.   
Part of him knew the day would come when his secret would no longer be a secret. He just always assumed he’d give it up, he’d find a new way to de-stress, a different place to disappear, or maybe some day he’d have the balls to just be himself and not give a fuck who thinks what about it. But he certainly never thought he’d see the day when he had this kind of support. This dopey fuckin’ ginger with his eager-to-please expressions. The first time they hooked up Mick had no intentions of letting things go any further, fuck he had no intention of walking into the Gallagher house on that very first night, didn’t even really want to give the kid a ride home. He just wanted a quick fuck behind a dumpster in an alley after a show, then the idiot had to go ahead and call him short. Fucker.   
Lifting him up to set his butt on the counter. Fucker’s got this annoyingly sexy way of manhandling Mickey. It pisses him off nearly as much as it turns him on. Hand on his thighs, pushing their way around the skirt. He didn’t bother with the proper undergarments, assuming the’d just be yanked off anyway. It was hard to get everything just right using his left hand only, but the job was passable. He’d never go on stage with the bare minimums like this, but for right now, this is okay. Worth it to see the expression on big red’s face when he came around that corner this morning.   
Sneaky pointer finger already finding and pressing past the threshold, “fuck,” he whispers as his lips wander south, neck, chest. Passing over the bodice of the dress and disappearing into the folds of the skirt. His mouth engulfing a cock that is already completely erect though painfully aware of just how overused it was yesterday. Fuck, they’ll need a whole fuckin’ bottle of lube for this. He can’t be the only one feeling raw and overstimulated.   
Second finger, his eyes roll shut with a gasp escaping his lips. Left hand fumbling around for the bag he left on the counter this morning after he made a quick trip to the store. Dragging though it without opening his eyes, breath getting heavy, head growing foggy and blurry. Fingers fumbling around in the paper bag, fuck, “fuck,” he half whimpers as his dick is buried in ginger’s throat. He hates when he sounds like a little bitch, but it seems to spur ginger on. Fuck, just dumping the whole damn bag out, hearing the contents of it pour onto the counter. Lube, lipstick, and a little surprise that he was starting to second guess. Thinking, maybe they weren’t there yet, maybe it was too soon.   
The mouth disappears from his cock, hand taking over, his idiot voice cutting through the fog in Mickey’s head, wondering, “what’s that? A rosary for giants?”  
Fuck, “no,” still all breathy and half-whimpered, “no, ben wa beads. It’s just…” his breath chokes off as a third finger presses inside his body, “fuck. Use the lube bitch.”  
Stupid fuckin’ giggle, “I will,” promising.  
Bastard, he just wants to see how much Mickey can handle. Fucker wants him to say ‘please’, that ain’t happenin’.  
His lips crash into Mickey’s again, mouth opening to swallow the whimper that escapes. Shit, fuck, holy shit. Hands, fingers, mouth. Fuck, holy shit. Fuck, “Ian,” it barely comes out of his mouth, meeting Ian’s and staying on his tongue. His own hands have become desperate. Trying like hell not to use his right hand for anything, trying like hell to ignore the pain that’s rising pins and needles in his fingertips as they curl around the counter without his permission. His left hand landing on the back of his neck, pulling his mouth as close as possible. Fuck, fuck, “Ian fuck,” coherent thoughts disappearing. Swirling into a mass of words that won’t exit his mouth, the only thing that will is, “Ian,” fuck. What the fuck? Find a fucking word dumbass. Use some fucking words.   
The sound of the lube bottle cap opening finally registers in his ears. A towel being shoved under his ass, “I don’t want to ruin your dress,” whispered against his mouth.   
How fuckin’ romantic, fuck. A half laugh escapes as his mind briefly wanders to the image of the two of them right here. Right now. Wearin’ a dress, takin’ nine inches up the ass. A great big middle finger to his old man. Fuck you Terry.   
His eyes flash open for a moment, realizing Ian has stopped moving. Gaze finding those gorgeous green eyes, watching his, goofy fuckin’ smile on his face as he reaches out to tuck some hair away from Mick’s face. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to. Watching as he gently presses himself into Mickey’s body. Slowly angling until he bottoms out. Watching Mickey’s face the whole while, taking note of that shudder racing through his body. The smile gets bigger. Fuck, Mickey never thought he’d end up a bottom more often than not. But he also never felt it was okay to give up control, then this dumbass happened. This dumbass and that stupid fuckin’ smile that rises when he watches Mickey’s face as they join together. And there’s something so fucking sexy, thrilling, comforting, tender, exciting, destructive, and so fuckin’ loving about it. That Mickey can’t help but to feel like his entire fucking existence is in that goddamn moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post these two smutty chapters today, but then I figured it's humpday so happy humpday from me to you ;)


	27. Glitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll decide for us - it's love. Just pure love and acceptance.

Glitter

He tosses the messed up kitchen towels in the sink, slips an around around Mickey’s waist and slides him off the counter. Steering him down the hall, taking the bag in his free hand. They’ve got half the day til it’ll be time for dinner with Yev. Might as well make good use of it.   
Behind the closed bedroom door he starts unlacing the dress. Kissing every single inch of milky skin as it becomes exposed, more gently over the bruises. Letting it fall to the floor, reaching for the wig next. Being certain to avoid touching the wound on the back of his head. It still makes Ian’s stomach twist when he looks at the damage. Fuck, he’s glad Mickey’s brothers came home when they did.   
Lips against the back of his neck, he can feel the shaking in Mick’s legs from the last orgasm moments ago. Guiding him to lie down, “be right back,” promising as he backs out. Heading to the bathroom for some kind of make-up removing substance. Not hard to find the container of pads that say ‘make-up remover’ in the medicine cabinet.   
Sliding down on the bed to lie next to his man, pressing kisses against his lipsticked mouth before he wipes the red paint off. Rubbing the pad along his cheeks as he watches his pretty eyes glazed over with pure pleasure. He takes his time, wiping every single surface of skin, removing every single speck of make-up. Making absolutely certain that Mickey knows how much he appreciates the art he created for Ian this morning, but also absolutely certain how much he adores and loves the image of the man underneath. Chasing each wipe with his lips, leaving kisses behind as proof.   
When the make-up is gone and the garments removed he is the most beautiful creature Ian has ever laid eyes on. He wants nothing more than for him to know, feel, and understand that. Every single fucking inch of him is perfect. And Ian is going to cover every single inch of him with kisses, licks, nibbles, and sucks. And every single inch will either receive a bead or remove a bead. He’s going to take his time. Make it last, take it slow. As slow as he possibly can. He’s going to draw out this man’s pleasure, until there is nothing left but bare naked exhaustion, complete trust, utter acceptance, and absolute vulnerability.   
A rosary for giants alright, and he’s going to pray every single damn bead until Mickey is completely spent. Fuck, maybe he’ll pray each one twice as he presses the first one in and receives that breathy groan that makes him feel like he’s losing his mind. He never thought it was possible for a body to respond so strongly to one single noise. But it is every single part of his body that responds to Mick’s grunts and half-whispered curse words that seem to constantly exit that mouth while they’re fucking. Every hair on his body standing up, blood rushing and whooshing through his head, sparks blanketing his eyelids when he blinks, snaps of light and colors floating across his vision in the air every single time.   
He takes a deep breath, leaning down to kiss his stomach as he presses the second one in. Muscles flexing against his lips. A sheen of sweat glossing smooth skin. His free hand slides over the length of Mickey’s cock. Slipping over the tip of it before his tongue follows. Swirling it in his mouth for a moment as the third bead is gripped in his right hand. Giving it a moment, waiting to feel the response in his man’s body. The okay to keep going or to stop. To let that rest. A tightened muscle, a hitched breath and a gasp.   
Teasing around the rim for a moment with this one. His lips working over his stomach again, moving up the surface slowly, stopping at a nipple as he pushes the bead past the threshold.  
“Fuck,” through clenched teeth. Let that one rest. His hand coming around the ridge of his perfectly fleshy asscheek. Kneading with his fingers into the muscle tissue beneath that soft layer of cushion.   
Turning his head to rest his ear over Mickey’s heart. Listening to the steady thump, thump, thump. Ian could live here. Right here, listening to the rhythm of this man. Feeling the warmth of him.   
His chin rubs against the top of Ian’s head as he nods. Fourth one, “shit.”  
Ian gets to his knees, raising up to put a knee on either side of Mickey’s pelvis. Lowering himself to straddle the man who is looking at him with pleasure glazed curiosity. Leaning forward to press his lips eagerly against those perfect pink ones. Distracting him with kisses as he generously lubes up Mick’s incredible cock with one hand and bead five with the other. This will absolutely push him over the edge and Ian will be right here to catch him. He’s worked up enough from just watching this that he doesn’t bother prepping himself, knowing that catching Mick off guard will be much more satisfying. He guides bead five through at the exact moment he guides Mickey into his body. Sitting down slowly to take it all in sync with that bead entering Mickey.   
It is exactly the edge Ian suspected. Every part of him going tense under, around, inside, and through Ian. Strong arms grasping, clamping him down to his chest. Mouth trapping, tangling Ian’s. His hips bucking up into him, right before rolling down onto his hand beneath him. A spasm of lust, love and pleasure racking through Ian’s core in sync with Mickey’s.  
“Fuck,” they both breathe into each other’s mouths, swallowing the other’s words and air, before engulfing each other once again as Mickey tangles Ian in his arms, reaching for some control and taking hold of it. Rolling the bigger man onto his back without breaking the contact point of importance. Reaching for the very last wave of energy and passion within both of their bodies. Crashing, rolling, arching together. Their run-on curse words breathed into each other mouths as their language of love rolls so easily off both of their tongues. Hands fumbling, searching, finding exactly what they’re reaching for. Tender overstimulation and pleasure meeting each other, weaving into a ball of lights and colors before exploding and becoming individual stars blinking, dancing, fading but never disappearing into the blanket of closed eyelids. The control is lost. The world is lost. The universe is lost. And all that is left is this man above him. This man above him, looking down with tenderness in his gaze, nuzzling his nose against Ian’s with a sweet smile rising on his face. Content, comfortable, and glowing in his own bare skin. His own milky pale, luminescent glowing skin that Ian has left his mark on every single inch of. Even that one tiny piece of glitter that remains, catching the light from the sun peering through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rosary for giants? What's in it for you - I'll show you, now get on your knees and pray bitch.   
> If you don't, I will... I mean... *clearing throat, as I back out of the room*
> 
> Had to.
> 
> One tiny piece of glitter on his perfect luminescent skin, just like in chapter 1.


	28. True Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit with Ms Bodnar
> 
> Conversation with Fiona

True Music

“That little old bitch,” he grunts, slamming his phone down on the dresser.

“Who?” Ian freezes in the bedroom doorway, watching Mickey angrily pulling on his clothes.

“Damn old stubborn tiny lady,” yanking on his jeans, “I just got off the phone with billing. Looks like my account’s all paid up. Now I gotta go down and give that old bat an earful.”

“Hold on,” his hand lands on Mickey’s chest when he’s within reach, “what are you talking about?”

“Jesus Christ Ian,” eyes narrowed, arms crossed, “the thousands of dollars in hospital bills. Old Ms Bodnar must have paid it off. That stubborn old biddy,” motioning with his hands between them that Ian back the fuck up or get shoved out of the way.  
He smirks at the anger, thinking there’s no way he’s going to miss out on this little confrontation about to happen. Stepping aside slowly, but grabbing him by the hips before he can get all the way around him. Yanking him in close and pressing a kiss against his mouth. 

“Alright, alright, get outta my way Gallagher. I got an old lady to take care of.”

“Sure Mick,” smiling at him, the smile not fading as he follows beside him on the sidewalk. The chill of late Autumn starting to set into the air. The bruises and scrapes all healed. His hand is still a work in progress, slowly and reluctantly doing the therapy at home to get it back to full usage. He doesn’t have the patience required to rest it the way he should be, which is only serving to delay the healing process. 

“The fuck you smilin’ at?” he wonders when his head snaps towards Ian.

“Nothing,” but when his hand swings past Ian’s, he grabs it. And Mickey doesn’t pull away. 

“Fuck,” he mutters with a half smile, giving a tight squeeze, “you’re a dick.”

“A dick you love.”

He shrugs, “it ain’t bad,” but that arced eyebrow and cocky nod say ‘fuck yeah I love your dick’, “I ‘spose the rest ain’t bad either firecrotch.”

Fuck, that smirk. It is nearly impossible to keep himself back. Wanting desperately to smash into that mouth with his own. But this, walking down the sidewalk, holding his hand. It’s enough, it’s more than enough. 

 

————  
“No. Not a word Mikhailo,” her gnarly finger up in the air between them as soon as she swings the door open, “I won’t hear it.”

His mouth is open, one little sound escaping before the old lady shakes her finger at him. Instead, he sighs. She steps aside, sweeping her hand towards the house to welcome them in. 

“Banush for dinner,” she announces, “you will both stay and you will both eat. You especially krasunia Mikhailo, you are looking too thin,” she reaches out to pinch his cheek, “nothing but cheekbones on this face. This face used to have cheeks. Real, fat cheeks. I remember those cheeks. Your little boy has those cheeks,” she smiles, ushering them towards the entertainment room where the piano sits empty.

Sly old lady. She knew, she knew if she led them in here, if she made herself scarce after a few moments of conversation. She knew his eyes would start wandering the piano. A quick once-over at first. Just a glance. Ms Bodnar returns with three shot glasses on a tray with a bottle of something that looks like wine, berries floating in it, “nalyvka.”

“Oh come on. I came over here to holler at you. Now you’re going to get us drunk and feed us dinner.”

“Not drunk,” she smiles, “loosen you up Yangoliatko,” filling a shot glass and handing it to him. She turns to Ian, “and you? Just a light alcohol, I made it from cherries, blackberries, and plums. I save the hard stuff for holidays.”

“Don’t ever drink her wine,” Mickey warns, “you’ll end up forgetting your own name. One shot of this, you’ll be fine. Won’t hit you any differently than a beer. Only one though,” he warns Ms Bodnar with high brows.

“Only one,” she promises, handing a full shot to Ian as she raises her own, “Bud’mo,” with a wink. 

Safe to assume it’s ‘cheers’ he repeats it when Mickey does. She sets the tray next to the chair by Mick, then she takes her own seat at the piano bench. She plays without singing, but it’s clear she’s very connected with the instrument. Even to an untrained ear. It’s relaxing, as Ian watches Mickey’s face fall into a wistful expression, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching her with awe in his gorgeous eyes. Fuck, Ian just wants him to get up. To sit down next to her. Even if he can’t play with his right hand yet, it’d be perfect to just sit down and sing a little. No one here but the three of them. No different than any of the other times they’ve sat here. 

He doesn’t get up. His focus doesn’t waiver either. Ian can practically see it winding though his system. Yearning to get up and touch the keys. The bastard resists it though. And the old lady keeps filling up his shot glass at the dinner table, loosening him up is right. He’s talking more than Ian has ever heard him talk. He’s even telling some stories about his childhood that he’s never heard. Mickey and this sweet old lady have shared a lot of moments in this old house. Openly talking about his mother by the time the dishes are done and by the time Ms Bodnar walks back out to the piano, he sits down next to her. 

Fuck. There are no words. There is not a single word. There are chills. There are tingles. There are hairs standing up on his arms, on the back of his neck. But there are no words. Not a single fucking word that can describe this. This sound. This image. This feeling. The entirety of it. 

She refills his glass before she excuses herself to the lady’s room, giving Ian a wink on her way past him. He stays on the couch. Waiting for something. A sigh, or a word. Or his fingers on the keys. 

Nothing. Ian gets up, takes the space beside him on the bench, nudging him with his elbow, “keep going,” coaxing gently.

“Nah man,” he raises his right hand in a lame excuse, his eyes sticking firmly to the instrument where his left hand is still perched over the ivories. 

Ian slides closer, trailing his left arm around Mickey’s waist, turning to press a kiss against his temple. He weaves the fingers of his right hand through Mickey’s, “show me.”

“Yeah right,” he grunts. 

“Why not? We got time. Come on, it’s the strength you’re lacking now, so just guide me to the right keys and tap, I’ll press.”

“So simple, huh?”

“Yeah. Just us Mick. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Doesn’t even have to sound good. Just has to feel good.”

“You’re a pain in the ass ginger.”

“Pain, huh? Sounded more like pleasure last night,” nosing into his neck.

“Fuck. Fine, let’s do this.”

————

“Damn stubborn old lady,” he’s still cursing her out as he stumbles up the stairs of the Gallagher house. But he’s grinning. He’s been grinning for most of the night. And it feels fucking incredible. The laughs that were escaping his mouth as Ian plunked down, miserably uncoordinated, on the keys under his fingertips; those laughs were the true music.

“Hey,” her voice is soft, a little sleepy sounding.

“Did we wake you?” he wonders, stepping over to the couch after he organizes their boots, hangs their jackets.

“No,” sitting up on the couch, sliding her hands through her hair. She has a bunch of paperwork out on the table in front of her, “just resting my eyes,” she lies with a smile.

Perching on the arm of the couch next to her, peering over the papers, “building?”

“Yeah. If I can get that last unit ready, I’ll be able to make a profit in six months.”

“That’s pretty good Fiona.”

“Yeah,” satisfied smile, “just have to make some smart decisions on some repairs, get a few estimates, double check my insurance coverage, and get my hands dirty.”

Getting her hands dirty has never been a problem for Fiona, “I doubt you’ll have an issue getting it rented as soon as it’s listed. It’s a good spot.”

Nodding slowly, her eyes are scanning him over, appraising him gently. It doesn’t feel like judgment, it doesn’t feel like she’s looking for Monica over his shoulder anymore. Her hand comes down on his knee, giving it a tight squeeze, “I want you to know I’m really proud of you Ian. These last few months have been stressful and you have done such an amazing job. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you training in the new manager before you leave me. You’re doing the right thing, I had my doubts at first, thinking it would be too much stress. But you are doing so well Ian, I’m so proud. A new relationship, a new career path, Mandy said you stayed so calm when you brought Mickey to the ER. And you’ve been so happy, you’ve been,” voice faltering, studying his eyes before deciding it’s okay to say it, “alive.”

Her face screws up like she’s going to cry, this is a very strange conversation to happen between the two of them. They rarely acknowledge the disorder aside from running through med schedules, checking and double checking the pill sorter and the refill schedule. But they’ve never once talked about how it’s affected Ian. 

“Thank you,” there are so many things that should come out of his mouth. This sister who has cared for them, protected them, kept them clothed, fed, and out of trouble as much as she possibly can. She was the mother and the father they could rely on, she was the one who was always there, always forcing them to own up to their shit but being there to catch them should they fall. He reaches for her hand when it rises to snag a tear off her cheek, wrapping it in both of his, “thank you Fiona.”

She nods, a complete understanding that it’s not just thank you for the kind words, it’s so much more than that. Maybe he’ll never find the words that suffice, and that’s okay. 

“Give me a hug,” she rises to her feet.

He does the same, pulling her narrow body against his. Tight. He can’t remember the last time he hugged her. It feels hazy. The memory of it. Like she was holding him through layers of blankets, he wasn’t holding her back, just leaning into her like he couldn’t physically hold himself up. 

“Okay sweet face,” she sighs, her hands rubbing up and down his back. That was it. At the hospital. The psych ward. That was the last time he hugged his sister. She leans back, a smile, “get up there and make sure your boyfriend didn’t vomit on the rug. Where were you guys anyway?”

“Ms Bodnar’s.”

“His grandma?”

“Well she’s not technically his grandma. She’s known him his whole life though.”

Nodding, her face falling serious, as she wonders, “do you think we could do Thanksgiving this year? It’s been a few years. And it just seems like things have been looking up, you know? Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to give thanks, right?”

The memory passes quickly from one sibling to the other. Standing in the kitchen, her protective barrier between him and their bleeding mother. Neither of them capable of responding. Only capable of watching.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Okay,” she agrees, “Lip will be home. Ask Mickey who he wants to invite. Mandy’s fine, I don’t want those damn brothers here though,” but as she says it, her resolve falters, “fuck it. Let’s do it at the diner. We’ll invite the whole damn Southside. Gallaghers, Balls, Milkoviches, I guess we could try to find Frank,” she shrugs.

“Fuck Frank.”

“Fuck Frank,” she agrees with a smile.

It’s strange. The way their relationship has swayed, in a lot of ways, throughout the last few years. But she’s always been a constant. Always a steady force in Ian’s life. Whether or not he wanted her there. And whether or not she wanted him, she never would quite leave. She had every right to resent the hell out of her siblings, they weren’t hers, they weren’t her choice. She got left with them; without her, they’d either be dead, on the streets, or in the system; and she chose to glue them together. Of course she’s made mistakes, she was still a child herself when she took on the responsibility of raising them. She didn’t have to, she could have just marched them all up to social services and turned them over. But she didn’t.

It’s strange how it’s taken so long to learn to appreciate each other. And it’s strange how much Ian doesn’t want to turn away. She rubs his arm, giving him a little nudge with a nod. She knows, she always knows. For good measure, he leans in for another embrace, just because it’s taken years to figure out that it’s been years since he’s done it. He hears her laugh a little against his shoulder before he turns away to head upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't Ian cute supporting Mickey's musical side?
> 
> I feel like since I'm using the fic to fix a few relationships, I might as well fix some holidays too!
> 
> (Trying to make the formatting less of an eyesore)


	29. Thanksgivings Past

Thanksgivings Past

 

“Yeah, Milkoviches don’t do Thanksgiving firecrotch,” he grunts as the throws another rock out into the empty courtyard between the abandoned buildings.

“Why not?”

Silence. Both sets of blue eyes downcast for a moment. Hers rising first, following the line of his shoulders, the back of his head, “we just don’t,” she tells Ian’s feet before her gaze finally rises to meet his. Something in it telling him not to press the matter, “thought Gallaghers didn’t either?”

“Nice one kid,” Mickey pats the little blonde boy on the head after his rock clinks off the bottle Mickey set in the window opening.

“Well Fiona wants to have a big dinner at the diner this year. It’s been a few years, but it feels like it’s been long enough since…” he trails off, feeling Mickey’s eyes landing on him. Not a good conversation to have in front of a three year old. Shrugging his shoulders, “no big deal.”

————

Mandy falls back on the walk out, taking a light hold on Ian’s wrist to slow his pace; letting Mickey and Yev get a solid lead on them, “the year Mom died. Colin managed to steal a turkey. We were going to do it, we had a whole plan. Had all the right dishes out, table set. Turkey in the oven. Ms Bodnar was going to come over and everything. It would be just like nothing had changed. We even set a spot for Mom at the table. We were so stupid, laid her bathrobe on the chair, set her favorite tea cup on the table like she was just sleeping in. When Dad came stumbling in that afternoon,” her voice chokes off, silent for a few breaths before admitting, “I don’t know. He just flew into a rage. Mickey was the first one he could reach. Mom had always told us to separate, there was no way he could catch us all and if we kept moving… Colin was the oldest so he usually made the sacrifice if it was… dumbass, anyway,” a sad smile breaks her uncaring facade as a tear escapes, rolling down her pale cheek before she flicks it off like it never happened, “that day. I don’t know, Mickey just wasn’t on guard. Dad got a hold of one arm before he could dodge him, and he grabbed a pan of hot gravy off the stove. And swung,” her voice trails off, eyes traveling her brother again.

His son is perched on his shoulders, their voices are gently floating in the air, traveling to Ian’s ears. They’re singing, it’s just a children’s song, but the joy in it. She clears her throat, “I thought he was dead. I just remember covering my ears and screaming. Just screaming until Colin grabbed me. Dad had a hold of Iggy by then, but Colin… fucking idiot. He shoved me in my bedroom, told me to hide under the bed. And shut the fuck up. I stayed under there for the rest of the day. It was dark by the time Mickey’s face appeared in front of me. His cheek was all burned up and awful looking. I just…” 

When her hand rises to flick at another tear, Ian takes a hold of it. Some of these layers that exist, ones like this, these are the ones he wishes were never built. Fuck, they shouldn’t stay buried but it hurts so badly to hear it. It hurts so much to know these things now. About his best friend. And about his lover. These are the fucking nightmares. These layers are the reason Mickey startles awake if he’s touched wrong, or he’s shook even slightly. 

“Fuck,” he breathes into the cool November air. Dim sunshine breaking through gray hazy Autumn clouds. 

“The boys had already cleaned up the kitchen. The broken dishes. Mom’s good dishes. Mickey handed me her bathrobe without a word. I hid it in the far back of my closet, I used to get it out sometimes to bury my face in it. Like it still smelled like her,” she half laughs, “I’m sure it didn’t. But I could pretend. The broken tea cup. It sat on Mickey’s dresser for years,” silence for a few shaky breaths. Her cold fingers gripping tight against Ian’s, “so now instead of celebrating Thanksgiving we come back here, get drunk, or high or both. Some years it’s all four of us. Some years it’s just the two of us. I don’t know,” she shrugs, “maybe it’s time to break tradition.”

————

“So, uh,” reaching out to run his fingers through Ian’s hair, “why don’t Gallaghers do Thanksgiving?”

“Monica,” sighing, his eyes closing momentarily at the contact of the gentle hand by his temple, “she slit her wrists one year in the kitchen while we were all gathered around the table eating like a normal family. Just kind of tainted the image.”

“That sucks man.”

“Yeah, but it was awhile ago now. And that wasn’t what killed her. I don’t know,” shrugging against the sheets that are soft beneath his bare skin, “Fiona thinks it’s been a good year, and she wants to celebrate it. You don’t have to come, I get it.”

Chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip as his hand finds the exact portion of hair it was looking for, running it through his fingers repeatedly, “Mandy told you, huh?”

“No… yes, but she told me not to say anything to you. So, um, no? She didn’t tell me.”

“Okay tough guy,” half smirk rising, hand trailing to his cheek for a love tap, “old piece of shit is dead, so maybe this whole Thanksgiving thing can’t be all bad, huh?” rolling to his side, facing the bedroom doorway even though it’s locked.

“That mean you’ll come?” sliding his arms around his body to draw him back towards his chest. Face buried in his neck.

“Yeah, sure,” more a tired sigh than an affirmation.

But Ian will take it. Pressing his lips against the back of his head, right over the place where the gash has healed, but a scar will forever remain.


	30. Thanksgiving Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving at the diner

Thanksgiving Present

 

It ain’t that bad. Although he’d never admit it out loud. Reaching out to slap another helping of mashed potatoes onto his son’s plate. While his evil ex-wife looks on with disdain, before she can even say it he reaches for the green beans, “vegetables first demon spawn,” tapping the top of his head as the little guy groans.

Her eyes narrow, something resembling satisfaction on her lips. He mostly can’t stand her, but he’s willing to admit she’s a good mom. And he’s willing to be civil to her for the sake of their son. A son he wanted nothing to do with at first. But the more she shoved the kid at him, the harder it was to avoid looking at him. And the more he ended up looking at him, the more he saw his own reflection staring back at him. A trusting, loving, empathetic little blob of human with his eyes. A moldable little shit and he couldn’t deny the fact that he wanted to help mold him. He wanted to protect him from the predators out there, predators like Terry and the douche that had sold his mother into sex slavery when she was a teenager. Svetlana would never be someone that Mickey would like, but she was someone he had grown to respect. They were both survivors, and for that fact alone, he could respect her. 

He must still be looking at her, because now she looks very smug while she scans him over. Sharing a fuckin’ holiday meal. What a fuckin’ joke. And his stupid fuckin’ brothers. Sister. Damn old stubborn Ms Bodnar brought some her wine, certainly Iggy’ll be passed out before desert is served. He definitely doesn’t like the way Mandy is looking at the oldest Gallagher boy. An arrogant prick as far as Mickey can tell. But Mandy has always had a thing for assholes, at least this one has a future.

The Balls. The whole goddamned Gallagher clan. Loud and obnoxious as fuck. ‘Course this ginger idiot sittin’ next to him, squeezing his thigh every so often, like he’s not sure if Mickey’s going to get up and run out of here or not. And of course, running out of this place sounds like exactly the thing Mickey wants to do. Fuck, his head turns, eyes landing on that gorgeous green gaze and he feels himself firmly planted in this chair. No way in hell he’s going to run away from this. 

Guess without actually coming out, the whole damn family knows now. None of ‘em seem to give a shit. He can’t figure out if his brothers put two and two together with the drag gear or not. They haven’t said anything, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they were too stupid to figure it out anyway. But he sort of owes them his life, so he can’t really fault them too much. They may be more Terry than Nadiya, but they ain’t bad. Not like he was. 

Stupid fuckin’ piece of shit. Nadiya had a will, one of the things she had stashed in her safe deposit box. In a few weeks they’ll report Terry missing. No one’ll miss him. Once he’s on the missing persons list for long enough they can declare him dead. And then the house is theirs. Not that it’s worth much. But with the gentrification of the neighborhood, who knows anyway. Mickey would rather light it on fire and watch it burn. Mandy wants to destroy it by hand, sledgehammer and crow bar. But neither of them know what would happen to Colin and Iggy if they didn’t have that particular roof over their heads. One or the other will end up behind bars again. The both of them with their own addictions, emotional and physical scars. Just like all fuckin’ Milkovich cockroaches, they’ll keep on existing. 

It’s been real fun and all, but Mickey’s glad when it’s over and everything is cleaned up. Offering Ms Bodnar a walk home, she announces, “what do you think I am Yangoliatko? Some ninety year old woman who eats a four’o’clock dinner and goes home for bed? Nastoyanka and more wine at my house,” she announces loudly for the entire horde of Southsiders, “live music even,” the little old biddy has the audacity to wink at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One fluffy little holiday almost finished, now if we can get Mickey to show his skills behind the piano to his family...


	31. Thanksgiving Accomplished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep, he'll share...

Thanksgiving Accomplished

 

It didn’t take much, not as much as Ian was expecting. Maybe the booze that Mickey warned him to stay away from was really as strong as he said. Mick only had three shots of it before he was sitting at the piano. In front of the entire damn family. Something Ian thought would never happen. The hunched over old lady is his right hand. Sounding much better than when Ian was his right hand. They seem to play on the same wavelength, their hands truly acting as though they’re one body. When they sing together, every single movement in the room stops, every conversation halted. Every single eye on the two of them. 

Every hair on Ian’s body standing up as their voices wind around the room, through the house. It’s the one she sang in the hospital to him, lyrics in Ukrainian. Though Ian can’t understand the words, the emotions are right. They feel right. And he’s not the only one feeling them. 

And it just keeps coming. They just keep playing. Turning to some familiar territory, turning to some dance-worthy tunes. Ian rarely turns down a chance to dance, so he does. He may be the only sober one in the house, save the kids, but that doesn’t mean he won’t enjoy this. 

“I never would have guessed this,” Fiona motions towards the piano, “never in a million years would have guessed he has musical talents. It’s really,” she sighs, smiling up at her brother, “incredible. Does he ever sing anywhere? There are so many open mic nights all over the city, he could probably make a few bucks if he just tossed a hat out on the L platform.”

“Nah,” Ian smiles, “it’s more of a stress reliever for him than anything else.”

“Well, he shouldn’t keep that talent all to himself. Regardless of what it’s for. Do we still have that piano? I know it was kind of a piece of junk, but if fuckin’ Frank could make it sound okay, then I’m sure Mickey can make it sound beautiful. Or did Frank pawn it off for beer money?”

He shrugs, “can’t say I know where it ended up. Probably pawned.”

“Probably,” she sighs, “fuck Frank.”

“Fuck Frank,” he laughs, taking the opportunity in the beat to spin her out across the floor. Letting the sound of her unique laughter settle over the sound of the music for a moment in his mind. If anyone had asked him two years ago, he’d have said there was no way in hell he’d feel this. This kind of fullness in his life. His family feeling like family again. They’ve celebrated a successful holiday, no one has slit their wrists or gone on a drunken rant about society and all it’s fuck-ups. No one has a broken nose, no one has puked - yet. Iggy’s been passed out on the couch for about an hour, but that seems to be the worst of it. No toddlers have ingested any coke. No one’s drinks have been spiked. 

Every single face in this room has been wearing a smile more often than not. He can’t count the amount of times he’s heard laughter today. And he feels it. He feels in the moment. There isn’t a cloud of bipolar or meds or any of that bullshit hanging over his head. He is right here, his mind is clear. His purpose is clear. And when Mickey’s head turns away from the piano, his gaze landing on Ian’s with a grin on his perfect face; he decides he’s not going to hide, stifle, or overanalyze his happiness. He’s going to embrace it. Taking the steps over to the piano bench, wrapping his arms around his man’s chest, nuzzling his face into his neck for that distinct scent before leaning out to drink in his features in the dim light of Ms Bodnar’s entertainment room. He waits for the okay, for that cocky little nod, before he leans in. Fuck it, everyone in here is drunk or high or both, probably won’t even remember the public display of affection tomorrow. Ian doesn’t care either way. If he wants to kiss this man and this man wants to kiss him, he’s going to do it. It no longer fucking matters to him who thinks what about it. They can have their opinions, it won’t affect his feelings for this pretty little Southside thug, of that he is certain.

————

He lets himself fall backwards onto the mattress with a huff, “fuck,” his fingers rising to meet his eyelids. Ian has to admit, sometimes when he watches Mickey playing the piano so delicately with those FUCK U-UP fingers, he thinks it’s the strangest combination he’s ever seen. At least when he’s Michaela the tattoos are covered by gloves and rings. 

“Drunk?” he wonders, unbuttoning the buttons on his shirt.

Mickey looked fucking sexy tonight. He always does, but something about the semi-dressy shirt and the jeans that were hugging his perfectly fleshy asscheeks, something about it. Something so Mickey about it. Mickey. It’s just Mickey. 

“Yah, damn old lady and her damn Ukrainian liquor. Home brews, fuck,” his hand falls down to the bed beside him, “you’re out of luck Gallagher. I ain’t movin’. You’ll have to sleep on the floor.”

Sliding out of his own shirt, hands dropping to his undo his belt next. Not responding verbally. 

“Gallagher?” wondering slowly while Ian stays silent.

Dropping his boxers. He’s not going to take advantage of his drunk boyfriend. Not really. But he knows the way this will work. Get naked, lay down. All it will take before he’s on him, trapping his mouth and straddling his lap. He’ll just lend a hand first. Dropping to his knees to work at Mick’s belt, “you looked fuckin’ sexy as hell tonight Mick.”

His head rises, peering down his body to look at Ian’s face, “you get a hold of the wine or something firecrotch?”

“No,” he snorts a laugh, arcing his fingers under the jeans at Mickey’s hips, waiting for him to rise up enough to pull them off, “come on. You’re fucking gorgeous. And you know it. And you’re fucking talented. And you shouldn’t hide that.”

“I’m not…”

“Shh,” sliding over him to press lips against his mouth. Mumbling his words into nothing against his kiss, “don’t deny it,” when he pulls back for a quick breath before diving back in. Passion driven this time. Tasting the fruity alcohol in his mouth, but he doesn’t mind. It still tastes like Mickey underneath. A taste that Ian can get drunk on without worrying about it throwing off his perfectly balanced tightrope walk, “fucking gorgeous,” repeating between hungry, insatiable kisses.

He feels Mickey’s hands rising to his back. More pressure against the fingers of his left hand than his right. Digging into his shoulder-blades, pressing him closer. Closer. Closer until he’s leaning completely against him. Sliding a knee up under his thigh, grinding their pelvises close. Ian’s hands are working the buttons of his shirt, mouth moving off Mickey’s trailing his cheeks, jaw, chin, neck. The hollow of his throat, lingering, letting his breath move slowly and evenly across the delicate skin of his neck as he frees the last button. Leaning back, pulling Mickey with him to drag his shirt off. Undershirt over his head quickly between kisses.

Shoving him down into the mattress again. Eagerly leaning down to plant a solid line of kisses down his chest, lingering on his stomach. Taking a moment to tease, linger. Feeling Mickey’s erection laying against his throat. His hands lazily trailing up the back of his legs. Finding those asscheeks that are a perfect handful for Ian. Fuck he loves those asscheeks. 

“Hold on,” Mickey sighs, breathless. Hands scrabbling for Ian’s face suddenly desperate.

“Need a bucket?”

“No, no,” sitting up, taking Ian’s face in both his hands. Eyes steady, clear, and blindingly blue in the dim glow of the bedroom lamp, “I need… I need you,” leaning forehead to forehead for a breath. 

“Okay,” sliding his hands up to his back. Kneeling on the edge of the bed to hold close. Unsure of where this rising emotion is coming from, this strange neediness suddenly in his grip. 

Another breath. Eyes open, peering into Ian’s. His hands finding the back of Ian’s neck, angling his face, taking hold of his lips with his own as his eyelids flutter shut. Slow, sweet, savoring every single movement his tongue is making. Savoring every single flavor inside his mouth. Every different texture against his tongue. 

He leans, leans until Mickey lies back. Not breaking the kiss as he settles over top of him. Hand behind his head, guarding the place, the place on the back of his skull that Ian will always feel an urge to protect even from something as harmless as a pillow. The only thing allowed to touch that spot is Ian’s hand. A hand that will shield. Block, and cushion Mickey’s only physical weakness. Palm flat against it as the kisses deepen. Drawing him as close as possible. 

“I love you,” breathless against Mickey’s mouth.

“I love you,” gasping back at him. The echoed words falling into Ian’s open mouth. Ingesting them, letting them settle in his chest as he feels Mickey’s thighs clamp down around his hips. Pulling him closer, starting to rock against him. Under him as his hands travel down the length of Ian’s back. 

Ian finds enough feeling in his free hand to make his way under Mickey. Kneading at an asscheek. Waiting for that sigh, that one that shakes on it’s way out of Mickey’s mouth. Entering Ian’s and forming the words in his head. The words, the okay to press on. The okay to start sliding into his body. This, he decides, is going to last a long fucking time. He’s going to take his sweet time prepping this man tonight. While he’s all relaxed and half drunk. He finally sat at the piano, in front of his family and Ian’s family. He sat there, bled his soul into those keys, bared himself for everyone in that room. And Ian wants to make certain he knows that it was appreciated. That his talent is recognized and cherished. That no matter what he chooses to do with it after tonight, he has a fanbase right here, a support system that will always be cheering him on even when he doubts his own abilities. Even when a little voice in his head, one that no doubt sounds like his father, tells him he’s not good enough or he should be ashamed of his artistry. Ian hopes that one day, his voice can override the others in his mind. 

“I love you,” he repeats, “I love you. You’re gorgeous. You’re talented, you’re so fucking talented,” pressing back into his lips before he can deny it. Taking a long moment to share his breath before he starts heading back down his warm sweat glazed body with his hungry mouth. Hungry for the salt of sweat. For the smoothness of his flesh. The heat of his body. Those tiny hairs around his bellybutton. 

He wants to flip him over, go face deep in his asscheeks, but he wants to take him face to face. And he wants Mickey to do this with as little work as possible. He wants him to just relax and enjoy. He wants him to stay cradled in the blankets and pillows beneath him. He wants to watch his dreamy expression turn wild with pleasure as Ian presses inside of him. He wants that breathy gasp against his cheek when he bottoms out. He wants to lean his forehead against his as he starts rocking. He wants to be as close as humanly possible when they arch that wave together, crashing chest to chest. Hearts beating wildly against one another while they gasp for breath. Cradling each other as the last grip of orgasm seeps out of their bodies. Riding out the tingles, pins and needles, together. Right there in each other’s arms. And he wants to lie there, watching Mickey’s eyes as the the passion recedes as sleep starts to seep in. He wants to watch him, that last image of blue eyes in the darkness right before those lids close for the night. Watch as his breath gets huffy with sleep. Watch as he turns onto his side instinctively towards the door. And then he’ll wrap him in his arms. He’ll lean into his back. Bury his face in his neck. Keeping his forehead against that broken place, that one broken part of him that Ian can seep into. Strengthen with his belief that Mickey can do whatever he wants in this life. That Mickey can be happy, comfortable in his own skin. Ian can wind his thoughts through that crack in his skull, he can tangle his belief and confidence into Mickey’s mind, until Mickey can believe it himself. 

When he leans into the back of his head tonight. Nothing but a sheen of sweat between their naked bodies. He presses a kiss against that scar under his hair, noting the discontented grunt parting his lover’s lips, before he whispers, “I love you. You’re incredible. Absolutely perfect. Gorgeous,” his words keep slipping out of his lips until sleep finally takes a hold of him. Grasping in a gentle hold of his body and mind, as he sinks into the world of dreams with the scent of his partner blanketing his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting comfortable making their relationship known on front of their families. 
> 
> And a little Mickey worship.
> 
> I think we've successfully made Thanksgiving!


	32. Curtis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorting through a little of Ian's past.

Curtis

 

“Fuck,” sitting down on the edge of the bed with a grunt, “I gotta get a fuckin’ job.”

“You okay on child support this month?”

He shrugs, “yah, but not next month. Bitch got a job finally, means I get Yev a few days a week. She’s like part-time at some lingerie shop or some shit. Rich side of town, probably find some lesbo with a money stuffed twat to ride off into muff-town with.”

Ian laughs, and Mickey can’t help but to smile at the sound of it. Watching him tugging on a pair of tight jeans. Fuck, that ass. His hand reaches out, taking a hold of it with a playful pinch, “hey now,” but he slides into Mickey’s lap for long enough to make-out hot and heavy until Mickey is painfully aware of the general direction his blood is flowing. And then big red stands up, “gotta go. Work and shit.”

“Fuckin’ tease,” he sighs, though he knew it was coming.

“What about bouncer?”

“Bouncer? You can go right ahead and bounce all over this cock, I ain’t gonna stop you.”

“No,” little smirk rising with a tiny pink blush, “later, I mean. Bouncer at a club or something, you know, for now? You have anything on your resume?”

“You mean runnin’ drugs and guns don’t look good on a resume?”

“Place I used to work, we’ll go down there tonight, I still know a few of the guys there. Could get you something temporary, just a paycheck until you can find something better. It’d be evenings, nights, but that would work out with Yev too if Svetlana is working days.”

“Better? Like what? Not much out there for a piece of trash like me,” it’s not meant for sympathy, Mickey just knows what he is and he’s not ashamed of it.

“Oh Jesus Mick, get your head out of your cute little ass. Figure something out, work for it…”

“I ain’t goin’ to school fuckface so don’t even…”

His snort is loud enough to interrupt, “sure Mick.”

“Fuck’s that s’posed to mean?”

“I know your sister, asshole. Your mom made you take all the homeschool tests and shit for the state when you got kicked out of public school. You had your GED when you were what? Fifteen?”

“Jesus, fuck. Why you even ask me questions if you just go askin’ her anyway? You a couple of thirteen year old girls braiding each other’s hair and talkin’ about your latest celebrity crush or what?”

“Mmhm, that’s exactly what we are,” he smirks, side-stepping out the door, “I’ll be back for dinner then we’ll go to the club.”

“What club?” he hollers as the door closes behind the big idiot.

“The White Swallow.”

“You fuckin’ serious? How ‘bout you find something a little more fuckin’ queer for me?”

“The Fairy Tail.”

“Fuck you!”

“Later, but only if you’re good.”

“Good,” mumbling to himself, “fuckin’ ginger.”

————

“I don’t know why the fuck you made me dress up for this shit,” smoothing the collar of his button-down for the umpteenth time as his green eyes appraise him with a nod.

“You want a job, you need to present yourself.”

“Bouncer Ian, not a fuckin’ lawyer or some shit.”

“Lawyer,” scoffing, his hand pressing up against the small of Mickey’s back to steer him into the club. It’s early in the night, but it is a Saturday so it’s just busy enough in here that Mickey’s skin is crawling immediately. Not his fuckin’ style. Bunch of old fags rubbin’ up on some young boys who probably aren’t even legal yet dancin’ in tiny shorts that barely cover their ballbags. 

“You worked here?” wondering incredulously as he watches some fat old fuck jamming a few bills in the gold shorts of some kid who looks about seventeen.

“Yeah,” shrugging him off by standing at his full height. Fucker. Fuckin’ tall gangly fucker, knows he won’t be able to hear him in this noise unless he stands on his tippy toes. He ain’t about to do that. 

Fuck, he won’t be able to handle working here. He’s certain of that, anger flaring up his spine at the thought of how many times these kids have been taken advantage of. Stripping is one thing, it’s a way to make a living. But fuck, half the dancers look like fuckin’ kids and that ain’t okay. As he follows Ian to the back of the bar, noticing the strong indication that these strippers are in for a lot more than just a lap dance. The services offered aren’t a no-touch kind of thing. Jesus, his hand rubs over his face at the thought of his ginger doing this shit. 

“Hey,” hoping he can get his attention over the thudding of dance music that’s forcing a heavy headache to pound through his skull already.

“Curtis,” some old fucker takes a hold of both Ian’s arms, leaning in to those stupid cheek kisses that ‘classy’ people do, “I hardly recognized you with clothes on,” an expression that is clearly an attempt at sly. Mickey wants to knock out the guy’s front teeth already. Must have Ian confused with someone else. Curtis, is that what he called him?

“Paul,” he’s responding with a polite smile on his face, “so good to see you. It’s been awhile.”

“It’s been too long,” the guy’s hand falls to Ian’s waist, hooking through his belt loop and immediately Mickey feels his fists clench at his sides, “you back to dancing? We miss you around here.”

“No, not anymore. I’m going for EMT certification now. Just brought my boyfriend down here for…”

“Boyfriend? Oh, my heart is broken Curtis. Or maybe you’d both like to come up to the loft for a nightcap later?” his eyes fall to Mickey. As he scans him over, Mickey feels equally horrified and fucking pissed off. His body moves forward but Ian steps in front of him, blocking his path.

“Not tonight Paul, it was so good to see you though,” backing up as he squeezes the dude’s shoulders gently. Turning quickly to face Mickey, his hands clenching down on his hips, warning, “don’t get angry. We’re here to get you a job, remember?”

“Yeah well, about that…”

“Curtis!” coming from behind the bar.

What the fuck? Who the fuck is this Curtis? And why does Ian keep responding to it? Mickey doesn’t listen as he chats with the guy behind the bar. At least this guy looks mid-twenties. But even behind the bar they’re half dressed. Fuckin’ bodies for sale all over the place in here. Anything for the right price, and it’s really pissing Mickey off. He’s absolutely certain he can’t handle working at a place like this. And he’s certain when another fat old fuck latches on to Ian’s hips that he can’t handle standing here any longer. 

“Let’s fuckin’ go,” jerking his thumb towards the exit when Ian politely excuses himself from the leech, Mickey would have just slammed his head down on the bar if he’d approached him that way.

“No, come on, manager is in the back. Let’s give it a…”

“Now. This is fuckin’ sick Ian. The place is sellin’ teenagers to rich old fucks for how much a pop? How far they go, huh? Hand jobs and blow jobs just part of the deal, only cost extra for fucking?”

Something dark is settling over his face and Mickey doesn’t like it. Reaching for his shirt sleeve, “come on Ian. Let’s go home. I’d rather sell drugs than underaged sex. Let’s go. I’ll find somethin’ else. Like you said,” he hates the discouraged look on the dope’s face, and he hates the tornado of memories that are rising on those gorgeous green irises. He hates that his shoulders are starting to slump as he’s standing here looking around the place. 

“Hey,” his hand slides up to his cheek, “thank you for trying to find me a quick, easy job. But let’s call it a night, huh?”

“Okay,” he finally sighs, shaking his head, dislodging the memories, “yeah.”

Once outside, Mickey slips his hand into Ian’s warm one. Wishing they had never come, never dredged up whatever fuckin’ memories are running rampant in that pretty ginger head, “hey,” nudging him with an elbow to get his attention, “I ain’t judgin’ you for working here, alright? Just, I don’ know, just makes me,” he shrugs fumbling for words as he watches that darkness settled squarely in those eyes, “makes me angry to think of you sellin’ your body,” finally admitting. Or sad, but Mickey’s not about to say something that fuckin’ corny.

He responds with a half nod, shame showing in the set of his shoulders. Mickey tries again, “hey, shit happens. Gotta do what you gotta do. I get it,” releasing his hands to fist the front of Ian’s jacket, dragging him closer to his level, “just don’t ever think that’s all you’re worth, alright?”

He starts to grunt something, his eye contact faltering like he’s going to try to blow Mickey off, but he interjects, making himself very clear, “I mean, you’re hot as fuck Ian, but you’re more than that. And this body,” hand sliding down the front of his jacket, over his belt, taking a firm handful of cock through his jeans, “it’s mine. Only person who gets to enjoy it like that is me, got it?” smirking up at the smile starting to rise on his freckled face, “but if you still got a pair of those shorts,” feeling an eyebrow cocking, as his hand rounds Ian’s hip and takes a hold of his ass, pressing him tight against Mickey’s body, “I won’t turn down a lap dance.”

———— 

Mickey sighs, staring up at the ceiling. The hole that is still in the drywall. He can feel Ian is awake beside him. They haven’t fucked, they haven’t talked, and neither one of them is sleeping. Which is just fuckin’ weird. 

He’s not sure why he’s not sleeping. But he’s sure why Ian isn’t. Finally he rolls over, landing himself squarely on Ian’s chest, lying over him like a blanket, “alright fuckface. You ain’t sleepin’. Why?”

His arm slides behind his head, propping his gaze to meet Mickey’s, “I don’t know.”

“Alright,” not believing it for one single minute. His hand falls to Ian’s hair, stroking through starting at his temple, until his fingers meet Ian’s behind his head. Lifting up and starting over. The motion and repetitiveness of it seems to calm him. So his other hand falls to do the same. Stroking until his fingers start tracing little circle patterns against his temples. His eyes close calmly and he takes a deep breath. Mickey feels it against his own chest. 

“I just keep thinking,” finally admitting with his eyes still closed, “all the stupid shit I did when I was manic. I mean the stripping was.. it was whatever, a way to make some cash. But it didn’t take long to lose count of the other favors. I don’t know how many strangers I fucked for cash. How many dicks I sucked. Drugs, booze. Fuck, I’m lucky I didn’t end up with HIV or… I OD’ed on purpose. I kept insisting to everyone it was an accident. But it wasn’t,” his breath quivers a little and trails off.

He waits. Lying over him, fingers continuing to move softly against his skin. 

“I just couldn’t admit how horrible I felt. Like I was just a burden. I hear people say suicide is selfish, but there’s nothing selfish about it when your mind has convinced you that you’re nothing but a burden, a drain, a leech on the people you love. Convinced that I could just disappear and make everyone’s life easier. No one would have to watch me, take care of me, make sure I wasn’t running off doing stupid shit. And more stupid shit. Thinking it was all just a never-ending cycle, like I could never break it and all I’d ever cause was damage. Hurricane Monica is what we always called our mom. And she was. But then I was too. And I remembered how it felt to be in the path of her destruction. I remembered how it felt to watch her, to be around her. It fucking hurt. It hurt all of us. I had myself convinced that I was no different. And she had gotten in my head too. She never took meds because they made her feel off, muted everything. She told me that people would never stop looking at me like they wanted to fix me. Like it broke their hearts to look at me. It wasn’t her fault, that was how she always felt and it made sense to me at the time. Because I could see it. In Fiona’s face. And Lip. Even Debbie.”

He watches Ian’s eyes moving beneath his closed lids as he speaks. Listening to every single word like it’s the last word he’ll hear. Feeling every single breath he takes underneath him, ribs expanding against his, before dropping back down towards the mattress. He feels the steady gentle rhythm of his heart, leaning down to rest his face against his chest for a moment, listening and feeling that tender heart beating against his face. Mickey can’t imagine his life without this man. How his life would be if he’d succeeded in OD’ing. He knows if this man didn’t exist there would be no way he’d feel this kind of love. It terrifies him that it could have been gone just like that, gone before he ever got a chance to experience it.

“Mandy was really ruthless, and determined, the way she always is; in her quest to make me understand that I was worth something. I wasn’t just some broken shell of a person. I wasn’t a burden. The hold in the psych ward was awful. Getting adjusted to meds, and the year it took to find the right balance. It’s a battle every single day Mick,” his knuckle meets his chin, tilting his face back up to look at him. His eyes steady, peering directly into Mickey’s, “it’s a constant thing that will never go away. Every single day for probably the rest of my life.”

He takes his time. Tracing over the man’s face under his own. Trailing his jawline, lips, cheeks with tiny bits of stubble. Nuzzling his nose with his own as his fingers find Ian’s behind his head. Entwining them with a light squeeze as he raises his head far enough to tell him, “well, so am I big red. I’m a constant thing that will never go away either. Every single fuckin’ day. And probably a battle more often than not,” smirking at him, “hope you’re ready for that,” leaning in to kiss the smile that’s rising on the face he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> '"Makes me angry..." or sad, but Mickey's not about to say something that fuckin' corny.' I actually had the word sad in there at first, and then I realized it was still Mickey and Mickey would admit to being angry well before he'd ever admit to something making him sad!


	33. Toy Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Shopping

Toy Train

 

“Alright demon spawn, what are you getting your mom for Christmas?” FUCK landing on top of the kid’s head, rubbing through his soft hair.

“A car!”

“Okay buddy, well you let me know what the salesman says when you try to pay for it with legos.”

“But Mommy needs a car.”

“Mommy can ride the L. What about, like, kitchen stuff or something? She got enough dishes for you?”

“Why would dishes for me be for Mommy?”

Mickey’s eyes roll just a little, “got a point kid. Alright. What do think she wants?”

“Hmmm,” his big blue eyes wandering the store fronts, landing on the toy store, “that train.”

“Really? Mommy wants a toy train?”

“Yes. I think she does.”

“Are you sure it’s not you that wants the train?”

“Mommy would want the train because it’s something she could play with with me.”

“Well aren’t you just a manipulative little shit?” 

His face screws up, deep in thought for a moment before breaking into a grin, “you’re teasing me Daddy!”

“Somethin’ like that,” the smile he wears for his son, it is something so beautiful. Tender, prideful, protective. 

Ian knows it is killing him to be out Christmas shopping. Especially in a ritzy part of town. But that was the only place that Santa was going to be that worked in their schedules. Svetlana is going to meet them here when her shift ends in a half hour. As far as Ian can tell Mickey hates everything about Christmas, but parting with hard earned and hard to come by money may take the cake. That’s not true, admitting to wanting something, anything, even hinting at something; that is the hardest part of Christmas for Mickey. Because admitting that he wants something, would mean admitting that he’d be willing to accept a gift should someone give him one. Ian doubts the Milkovich family ever celebrated a full Christmas with all the trimmings, wrappings, and lights; even when Nadiya was alive. He hasn’t asked yet, but he’s certain she must have done something special with the kids for Christmas every year. Some kind of tradition. 

He can see the strain in his face when he looks at the price tag on the train set. The inner turmoil of wanting it because his son wants it, wanting to give him something that he knows will put a smile on his face on Christmas morning, even if it’s wrapped labelled for his mother. It’ll make the kid smile when she unwraps it. Fuck, it might even make her smile. Ian thinks she probably has a gorgeous smile, he has yet to see it. 

But he also has to draw the line somewhere with this kid. He won’t always be able to afford the things he wants. He might as well learn that young. 

When Mickey’s eyes start scanning the store, for what Ian is certain are locations of security cameras, he steps into Mickey’s back, “I’ve got some cash I could float you if you don’t have enough on you,” trying like hell to make it sound nonchalant. If Mick thinks it’s charity, or Ian taking pity on him, then Ian won’t get out of this without a black eye. Or at least a night or two of sex-withholding. 

“No man,” he sighs, “I ain’t borrowing money from you. Bad enough I didn’t pay your sister rent this month. I definitely am not getting into borrowing cash from my boyfriend.”

“Holidays, come on. Everyone knows they’re tough on the wallet.”

“Whatever. I’m not borrowing money for some shit he don’t even need. Just to put a fuckin’ smile on his face. Not like I ever had anything for Christmas, didn’t hurt me to learn young that life’s tough.”

His hands come up to take hold of Mickey’s arms. Not certain if it’s to keep him from running away or to offer a little bit of comfort. He’s not going to bring it up, he’s not going to ask - isn’t it what any parent wants, to give their child better than what they had? That’s fucking stupid. It’s unfair to remind him. And Ian won’t do it, “since Yev’s dad won’t tell Santa what he wants for Christmas, what if Santa got the train set for both of Yev’s parents?”

“Shut the fuck up Gallagher,” shaking his head in amusement, “Santa can shove the train set up his ass if…”

“I’d prefer your cock, but could be kinky I guess,” leaning in quickly to press his lips against the bare spot of skin between his jacket collar and his hat.

————

“Daddy!” his little fist wrapping tight in the tail of Mickey’s jacket, yanking it back and forth vigorously, “Daddy look! Play me a song! Play me a song!” He’s practically vibrating out of his skin with excitement. 

There’s a piano in the corridor of the mall they’ve entered. It’s set up as though a show just happened or is happening soon. Rows of chairs for onlookers empty now. The hustle of the Christmas shopping crowd in the background. 

Ian can see the longing rise in Mickey’s stance as he eyes the instrument, but he runs his hand through his son’s hair again, “sorry demon spawn, we gotta meet your mom in five minutes.”

“That’s five minutes! One song Daddy! One song!”

“Doesn’t work like that kid. Piano isn’t just up for grabs, probably gotta sign up or something. Probably get kicked out if I just sit down and start playin’.”

“Oh. Well let’s go see Santa first, then you can play me a song and it won’t matter if we get kicked out.”

Milkovich logic in a three year old. It’s priceless. So is Mickey’s laugh, “we’ll see about that. Let’s meet your mom before she gets pissed when we’re late.”

“Mommy’s scary when she’s pissed off,” he whispers.

“Don’t repeat that,” he whispers back. 

Ian can barely stifle a laugh. He’s certain he could spend the rest of his life just listening to the conversations between the two of them. 

When they’re done with Santa, Mickey steers them out of the building taking a route that doesn’t pass the piano. Ian’s hopes falling, wishing he would have given in. Given into the urge to touch the keys, to play a song for his kid. To just follow his love for music and allow himself to share it. Fuck, how could he wrap that up for Christmas?

————

As soon as his body rolls up to his shoulder, facing the door, leaving his back to Ian; he slides in. Wrapping his arms around his chest, “can I ask you something?”

“No. I’m sleeping,” he grumbles.

“Nice try,” sliding his fingers between Mickey’s under the pillow, “why are you so reluctant to play and sing in front of people?”

Silence for a moment. He listens to Mickey breathe, trying to find the words, or maybe trying to decide if there is only one reason. Or a reason Ian could understand. His arm tightens over Ian’s, drawing it that much closer to his bare chest, “I don’t know. Just, I guess…” he trails off for a few breaths, “Dad used to smack us if he caught us singing. Used to say music was for faggots. Shit like that,” shrugging it off like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it wasn’t his father smashing just another thing he loved.

“He was kind of right,” Ian presses his lips against his soft skin, “music is for faggots. And everybody else on the planet who enjoys it.”

He snorts a laugh, “every time I think you can’t get more queer, man,” lifting their entwined hands to press Ian’s against his lips, “now shut the fuck up. I’m sleeping.”

“Okay Sleeping Beauty,” nuzzling into his neck, he’ll drop it for now. But Ian is not going to give up on Mickey, not until he’s comfortable sharing that breathtaking side of himself every time the mood strikes him instead of fighting it away, and stifling it.


	34. Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night in together.

Christmas Eve

 

He removes his jacket, boots, shoving them in the specific place they’re supposed to go. And if they aren’t in the exact right spot, big red will move them first thing in the morning. Unwinding his scarf from around his neck, feeling the bills fat in his back pocket and hating himself for it. He told Iggy and Colin they were on their own. If they wanted to carry on with Terry’s way of doing business, that was up to them. But fuck, fuckin’ holidays. And rent. And child support. 

Fuck Christmas.

Stepping into the house, fully expecting the loudness of Gallaghers getting dinner ready. But they’s strangely quiet. Fiona must still be out. Just Carl and Debbie shuffling silently around the kitchen.

“Fuck’s up?” he wonders when neither of them have a snappy welcoming phrase to offer.

Shrugged shoulders in unison. Debbie’s eyes wander towards the stairs, “he’s upstairs.”

“Who?”

“Ian. He came home all weird and hasn’t come back downstairs.”

“What? He sick?”

“Probably off his meds,” Carl sighs.

“No he ain’t,” Mickey knows this for certain. He watched him take the pills this morning. He finds himself watching Ian do everything he does. Not because he thinks he can’t take care of himself, but because Mickey can’t peel his eyes off the man when he’s in the same room. 

He recognizes true concern in the furrowed brow of the little matchstick as her eyes wander the stairs again, probably hoping he’d heard Mickey’s voice. Hoping he’d make his way down for dinner. 

“Okay,” sighing, his gaze quickly takes in the pan of tater tots and breaded chicken bits, “really? That’s dinner? No wonder he ain’t comin’ down,” shaking his head as he turns to take the stairs. 

The bedroom door is cracked open, the curtains drawn even though it’s dark outside already. Fuckin’ Chicago winters. He listens as his breath catches when Mickey sits on the edge of the bed. Behind him, laying a hand down on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. Running through his mind, the things Mandy told him about the signs of a depressive state, he knows for certain that physical touching seemed painful. Breathing a sigh of relief, and taking the chance to rub his arm a little, “hey sleepy face, you hungry? The little heathens downstairs have some kind of frozen fried crap for dinner, but I guess if you put enough ketchup on it, it’ll fill the void.”

Nothing. 

Leaning over him, pulling the blanket down that’s shadowing his face, eyes open, “you feelin’ sick or somethin’?”

His head shakes, barely, but it did.

“Okay. What’s up then? I’m not gonna leave until you tell me, so you might as well save us both the time and just out with it,” leaning closer, planting his hand on top of Ian’s clenched fist wrapped in sheets.

“Just,” whisper soft, “bad day.”

“Alright. Well, I’m going to order a pizza, steal the family laptop for some Double Impact, and sit here with you. So,” pulling the blanket back up to where he had it covering his face, “don’t move,” like he would anyway.

————

At least his eyes have appeared from under the blankets by about an hour into the movie. Mickey knew he wouldn’t be able to resist it. Fuckin’ weirdo, who the fuck likes Van Damme? Mickey can think of about ten action stars he’d fuck before Van Damme. 

Arm appearing next, reaching for a slice from the box propped strategically on Mickey’s lap. He bucks his hips up just as his long skinny fingers hover over the pizza. Easily knocking the food out of the way so Ian gets a handful of dick instead. 

“Dick,” he accuses with a grunt.

“That’s exactly what that is Einstein.”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay,” hand falling to stroke through his hair before reaching for a piece of pizza to hand over, “but I’m trying to watch a movie right now. You’ll have to wait firecrotch. Want somethin’ to drink?”

A heavy sigh parts his lips, “really want a shot of vodka.”

“Off the table.”

“I know. Just…” he’s contemplating the pizza with one bite taken from it like it’s going to reach out and slap him, “I saw someone die today,” finally admitting, staring at the pepperoni, “it just… I mean I knew it would happen eventually. It just…” finally bringing the slice to his lips for the tiniest most ridiculous sized bite Mickey has ever seen a grown human take, “sucked.”

He reaches out, turns and folds the pizza until it resembles lips, “you givin’ it cunnilingus or fuckin’ eatin’ it?”

“Gross, now I’m not eating it.”

“Fuckin’ pussy. Eat the damn thing. You gotta take your pills. And I ain’t dealin’ with you bitchin’ about stomach cramps. So eat it,” turning suddenly to press big red’s head to his lips, running his hand though that quaff of bright orange hair on top of his head before he settles back against the headboard again. Leaving his hand in the hair he loves, twisting some of the soft strands between his fingers, “that sucks man,” finally acknowledging his situation.

“Yeah,” leaning into Mickey’s hand like a cat, all needy for affection. But Mickey’s willing to give it. As long as the big idiot is eating he’ll keep stroking his head. Fuck it, he’ll sit here all night and stroke his hair if it means the difference between stable and falling into depression. 

————

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” muffled by the pillow. He’s been able to feel those big green eyes on him for as long as he’s been fighting to surface from deep sleep. It’s like they’re physically reaching out and tickling his bare flesh.

“Nothing,” he tries. He’s not in his usual spot, pressed up tight to Mickeys’ back. The closer Mickey gets to the surface of consciousness the more he feels the pressure points on the mattress are just wrong. Fuckface must be sitting up. Sitting up, fuckin’ watchin’ him sleep.

“What the fuck Gallagher? How long you been starin’ at me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well you gonna fuck me with your eyes all morning, or you gonna fuck me with that cock?”

A half laugh escapes. And there he is, pressing up against Mickey’s bare back. Leaning his face into his neck to land kisses along his spine. 

“Just don’t wake me up for it, alright?” he grunts as his hands start wandering.

“Yeah, sure Mick,” he can feel the smile on the kid’s face against his skin, “you know what day it is?”

“I said not to wake me up. It’s fuckin’ Saturday.”

“Christmas Eve.”

“Fuck Christmas Eve.”

“I’ll fuck you all the way to Christmas morning.”

“Now you’re talkin’ tough guy,” seizing his hand as it rounds his hip, lifting it to his lips to press a few kisses into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to derail depression in Ian Gallagher: A guide by Mickey Milkovich  
> 1\. Van Damme  
> 2\. Name-calling  
> 3\. Trickery for dick grabbing  
> 4\. Sex Jokes  
> 5\. Affection in the least affectionate way possible  
> 6\. Sex - and more sex, fuck it, as much sex as possible  
> 7\. Happy now?


	35. Southside Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Christmas together.

Southside Christmas

 

Accepting a coffee refill from Svetlana, sitting back on the couch in her apartment to watch Mickey and Yev setting up the train tracks. That huge grin was more than worth the money. And Ian was right, Svetlana has a beautiful smile.

They got up early, headed over here so they could be here when Yev got up. It’s still fucking early, and Ian wants nothing more than to get back in bed. But then he’d miss this. The image of Mickey Milkovich sitting cross-legged on the floor with his son. Putting together a wooden train set. The red lights of the Christmas tree beside them blinking lazily, reflecting in the blue of their eyes. HIs father’s eyes, his mother’s smile and the luxury to just be a kid. It’s a rarity in this neighborhood, this little boy is lucky as hell to have both parents who care about him and want to be in his every day life. Not just holidays, not just important dates on the calendar. They want to be a part of the every day. Every single day. Every single moment. They’re not watching him grow up from behind a phone screen, they’re not posting his every moment on social media. They’re here, right here, present and active. They don’t hover over him, they let him fall, wait for him to pull himself back up. And he knows that if he falls too hard or too far, they’ll be there with outstretched arms. 

————

The snow is falling as they walk to Ms Bodnar’s for brunch with Mickey’s siblings. Yev’s mittened hands folded neatly in Ian’s and Mickey’s. Swinging him up through the air every third step. Letting the sound of his laughter ring around them, more beautiful than any Christmas bells. 

Ian thinks no man has a right to look as gorgeous as Mickey does. With a smile on his face, his milky pale cheeks pink with Winter’s kiss. The breath leaving his lips in a fine frozen mist. His eyes shining through the frost of a Chicago winter, like a brilliant summer sky promised on the horizon. When those sparkly eyes land on his, fuck, it takes his frozen breath away as his heart lodges itself squarely in his throat and he realizes so clearly and so suddenly that this man is the one he’s going to marry someday.

Yev’s first request at Ms Bodnar’s is, “play me a song Daddy!”

In the privacy of Ms Bodnar’s entertainment room he doesn’t hesitate. Ian is shocked that he knows some Christmas songs. And he sings them beautifully. Lifting the smiling little boy up onto the piano, singing through his own smile to ‘White Christmas’. When he finishes up the song he leans in towards his son’s face, lingering close for the final chorus, waiting for his little boy to join him in song. Ian couldn’t, even if he wanted to, stifle the grin that rises at the sound of their combined voices. 

————

Dinner at the Gallagher house. The whole loud obnoxious clan of them. Even Frank crawled out of whatever current gutter he’s been living in to join them. His yearly speech on the consumer driven holiday, the bastardized version of Jesus’s birthday. Which then of course leads into his yearly speech on his ungrateful brood of children. 

Sitting around the tiny table-top tree to exchange whatever measly gifts they could afford for each other this year. Usually clothes or shoes are the go-to gifts. Things they need. This year is one for the record books. Fiona went all out, having made a little extra money at the diner this month, she could afford the wants for Carl, Debbie, and Liam. 

It’s already been the most beautiful Christmas Ian has ever had, but to top it all off he’s going to go to sleep Christmas night with the most perfect man he’s ever met. He wants to tell him that, but he already knows he’ll get accused of being high or drunk, or he’ll just get a middle finger paired with an eye roll. 

They agreed no gifts for each other. Knowing money is tight and it would only add stress to an already stressful time of year. They agreed that just being together was enough. So Ian is surprised and a little pissed when he enters the bedroom to see a wrapped present on the bed, “what the fuck Mick? We agreed…”

“Yeah, yeah. Open it anyway fuckface, it ain’t anything nice so don’t get your panties all knotted up.”

Shaking his head with frustration as he peels the paper back. The annoyance immediately dissipating when a handmade wall hanging is revealed. It’s a wooden piece with hand carved stars, scorched wood stripes in the pattern of the American flag. A blue stipe and a white line signifying first responder, “Mick,” he sighs, fingers running over the surface of the gorgeous, thoughtful, incredible gift, “did you make this?”

“Yeah but it ain’t…”

Ian knows that if he scrolls through Mickey’s phone he’ll find a conversation that goes a little like this: ‘Yo bitchwit, Ian says no gifts. That actually mean no gifts?’ … ‘No fucker, that means gifts.’ … ‘Why the fuck would he say no gifts then?’ … ‘Make him something, then he can’t get mad at you if he actually did mean no gifts.’ … ‘What? Like a fuckin’ cake?’ … ‘No dumbass. Like this.’ Followed by a photo of something similar to this very thoughtful gift that Ian loves.

“Don’t shrug it off asshole. It’s incredible, how did…”

“It’s just some shitty old pallet wood, don’t be gettin’ all teary eyed about it.”

“But you…”

“Didn’t do shit man, sanded it down, burned it a little, carved it a little. Two of my favorite things - knives and fire,” he smirks, “and two of your things - patriotism and savin’ lives.”

Another fucking layer of this man, “I don’t know what to say, I didn’t get you anything Mick, I thought we were actually serious when we agreed not to get anything for each other.”

“Fuckever man, forget about that little train already? Hmm?”

“Well, but that…”

“Was perfect. And if you don’t think it was enough,” one eyebrow lifting as his eyes scan over Ian’s body hungrily, “then bend over bitch.”

“You know what I think?”

“Nah, I ain’t that stupid Gallagher,” cocky little head nod, baiting him to come closer.

“Funny. I think I still have a pair of those little gold shorts around here somewhere,” reaching out for belt loops, arcing pointer fingers through and yanking him closer as he grins.

“Oh yeah?” tilting his face up, expecting kisses but Ian’s going to string him along, tease the hell out of him. Show him all the tricks he has in his bag.

“Yeah, but you’re on the naughty list this year,” grabbing hold of his hips to shove him backwards onto the bed, “and naughty boys get spankings for Christmas,” though he can’t even say it without laughing. The thought of spanking Mickey without getting his lights knocked out is amusing to say the least. 

————

He’s not thinking about all the strangers he’s ground against while their hands wandered just a little too far, while their boozy breath rose prickles up his spine. He’s not thinking about all the times he acted coy and surprised when their erections rubbed up against his butt. All the times they feigned apologies with the heavy hint that he needed to rub it off for them. All the times he whispered a price in their ear. A menu of things he’d be willing to do for them if the price was right. He’s not thinking about how appalling he found them, how needy and pathetic. He’s not thinking about them. And he’s not thinking about how much he hated himself. How much he hated himself for putting a price tag on his self worth. 

He’s not thinking about that because he’s thinking about Mickey. About how Mickey smells like cologne, sweat, and nicotine. How Mickey is keeping his hands to himself, just like Ian ordered of him. How every time a huffy little breath exits Mickey’s mouth and trails down Ian’s bare shoulders it rises tingles of wanting through his core. And of course he’s thinking about Mickey’s wonderful erection against him, he’s thinking about all of the things he’s going to do with it tonight. 

He’s not thinking about the ways his past broke him down to a point of not wanting to live. He’s thinking about living. He’s thinking about living, tonight, tomorrow. A future. A future that is so much more than he ever imagined for himself. And fuck, it is attainable. He lets his head fall back against Mickey’s shoulder with a sigh, turning to peer over at his face. That debate raging behind his crystal clear blue gaze, can he touch yet? 

His gaze follows the line of Ian’s body lounging across his before landing on his eyes with a half-cocked brow, and a half-cocked nod, “c’mere.”

Reading the unsaid words on that expression, ‘you know you can’t fuckin’ resist me.’

And Ian can’t. He has no reason to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say about this chapter, how pretty is Mickey in the snow? He's so pretty. Oh, and we've put Ian's lack of self-worth to bed. He's definitely so much more than a body to grind all over.


	36. Music Store

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch of this piece... so we're setting Mickey up for a future in music.

Music Store

 

The guy’s eyes light up fiercely like Mickey just opened a bag of a million diamonds, breathing out, “kobza,” as his hands linger over the instrument.

“Yeah, I know the fuck it is, what I wanna know is if you can fix it.”

The response is slow, so fuckin’ slow. Maybe this guy is special or somethin’. His eyes don’t leave the instrument and when Mickey’s mouth opens again he receives a sharp ginger elbow in his side. Head turning quickly to see Ian mouthing, ‘shut up’ at him.

“A fretless pear-wood kobza,” the old guy breathes out, “this is at least a hundred years old,” his face finally tilting away from the instrument to meet Mickey’s eyes. They’re filled with wonder, “where did you find this?”

It’s not accusatory, like most people would probably be. He shrugs, caught off guard by this guy’s awe, feeling a little too exposed as the guy stares, “my mom’s,” a weird stab of melancholy yearning passing through his body. His fists clench at his sides and he shoves them in the pockets of his coat, internally cursing himself out for still missing her.

“Do you know how to play it?” the guy reaches up to remove his glasses, and now there’s not even a transparent barrier between him and Mickey. 

Mickey feels himself taking a step back, “yeah.”

Silence, the awe not receding. His teakwood eyes flit across Mickey’s face, landing on his mouth for a moment as he whispers, “my god. You’re Nadiya’s boy.”

Nadiya’s boy. Another step back happens without Mickey’s permission, “yeah,” hand rising to wipe across his nose, “how much to fix it?”

The fuckin’ delay in this guy’s response, fuck. He regrets walking through that door. But it’s the only music shop in walking distance that doesn’t have boarded up windows, the old man behind the counter not ready to give in and close his fuckin’ doors.   
“Mikhailo.”

“Yes, fuck. How much?” there’s a weird desperation rising in his throat, wanting this guy to shut the fuck up, get off memory lane and answer his fuckin’ question. Fuck. He feels Ian’s hand landing on his lower back through layers of jackets and sweaters and everything that blocked out that fuckin’ cold ass wind on the walk down here, but now is only serving to trap the heat and sweat on his skin, a trickle down his spine, meeting the waistband of his boxers and just sitting there making him squirmy, crawly. He wants to start ripping off all the layers of polyester, nylon, acrylic, fleece, and cotton. Probably put together in Vietnam or somewhere that they’ve never even felt the first lick of frostbite. But fuck, they know how to put together a fuckin’ winter coat that’ll stifle the fuckin’ life out of a person. 

Fuckin’ fuck. The guy’s eyes on him, memories rising and flashing across the watery surface of his irises. He knew. He knew all those years, didn’t he? He knew about the woman that broke in here every single fucking weekend with her kids. How fuckin’ naive of Mickey to think he didn’t know. There’s probably a goddamn apartment above them, he probably fuckin’ lives in it. He probably sat there and listened. 

The old fucker nods, “How about this? How about you come work here for me, and I charge you nothing for repairs?”

“The fuck sense does that make?”

“None Mikhailo. None at all,” a half smile rises, “you start the second day of the New Year. Be here by quarter to the hour, we open at nine’o’clock sharp. Tuesday through Saturday.”

“I don’t even…”

“I’ll see you next week.”

————

“What the fuck?” chewing angrily on his lower lip as Ian smiles down at him.

Nudging him with an elbow, “it’s a job.”

“If you count sellin’ fuckin’ vinyl to a bunch of fuckin’ hipster idiots for minimum wage as a job, then yeah sure, it’s a job.”

He should know by now that the snark in his voice only makes the big idiot smile grow wider, “it’s a job then.”

“Fuck you,” his middle finger rises for emphasis along with his brow.

Which of course makes that dopey fuckin’ smile turn blinding, “whenever you want.”

“Jesus, fuck, c’mere,” reaching for the back of his head as his mouth crashes into Mickey’s. Yes, right here in the middle of the Southside street with snow swirling around their feet and a frigid wind whipping through the material of their blue jeans. Hands groping, chasing, grasping one another. Pulling as close as humanly possible through all the layers to keep them warm. Fuck it if the only thing Mickey needs to keep him warm is the way this dope sparks to life against his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kobza is a traditional Ukrainian instrument - stringed, mildly similar to a guitar.
> 
> Kissing in the street? Yep, they sure are.


	37. Dance of Lips and Tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Eve

Dance Of Lips And Tongues

 

Breathing in through his nose, catching the scent of Mickey though his winter hat pulled down tight on his head. Pressing in close behind him, arms snug around his chest. Tilting his face down to bury his nose in the side of the man’s neck, the one bare spot of skin between his jacket collar and his hat, taking a deep breath to fill his entire being with Mickey. Pressing his lips against his warmth, sliding the paper wrapped gift out of his pocket and into Mickey’s hand.

“Fuck’s this?” he wonders with his usual edge of attitude.

“Just open it,” he smiles, keeping him tight to his body but relaxing his hold slightly.

He’s surprised he talked him into coming down here. To Navy Pier for the New Year’s Eve fireworks. He thought there was no way in hell he’d come willingly into this size crowd for something as stupid as sharing a midnight kiss and watching fireworks.

“You fuckin’ dick,” he breathes when he pulls the paper back. Revealing a framed photograph that Ian took the moment Mickey leaned into Yev’s face over the piano on Christmas. 

“I figure it can sit next to the one of your mom with you and Mandy,” on the piano at Ms Bodnar’s. The piano where the photos were taken.

“Yeah, I get that you dick,” repeated name-calling. He must be at a loss for words.

Ian smiles, hearing as Mickey’s breath hitches in his throat. Nuzzling into his neck, gently his hands gripping his hips, turning Mick to face him. When he leans out, he sees those gorgeous eyes filling with tears that there’s no way in hell Mickey will let fall. Blinking rapidly as his hand rises to knuckle at his nose before he buries his face in Ian’s jacket. Or maybe he will let them fall. Just not where anyone can see them.

He slides a hand up the back of his head, resting gently over his spot, his one weakness; Ian shielding it with his tender touch, blocking it from any incoming threats in the moment that Mickey is giving way to rising emotions against his heart. Leaning his chin on the top of Mickey’s head. 

Words muffled into his jacket, something about cryin’ like some bitch.

“I’m not judging,” Ian whispers, holding him that much closer. 

He is something else. This spark of blue flame. He burned brilliantly last night, the first time back at the club. Michaela, she was the most incredible thing Ian had ever seen. The amount of love and support she received from the other queens was breathtaking. And her performance, it was absolutely earth-shattering. She wasn’t just sitting at a piano dancing her fingertips across an instrument, singing to some crowd of strangers. She was stripping herself bare and vulnerable, heart and soul pouring out of her into the piano, rolling over the crowd like a gentle ocean wave. Tugging every single person in the club into her tide. 

A job at a music store. It’s not glitz or glamour. It’s not a huge paycheck or a pension. But it’s a job. A job in a place that is filled with instruments, music, and people who love the art form. It won’t take long before Mickey is sitting behind the piano in the store, playing out his soul for every single stranger that walks into the place. Hipsters looking for vinyl, sure. Parents looking to buy a guitar for their unruly pre-teen, sure. High schoolers skipping class, sure. Who the fuck ever walks into that place. It won’t matter. What matters is this: Mickey will have a place where he is comfortable to share his gift, to hone and craft that skill, to remember his mother without being ashamed of it. He will go to this job for weeks, or months, or years and he’ll have a place to release where his artistry is appreciated. Where he won’t have to hide his passion behind a layer of make-up, a wig, and a floor-length ballgown. Though Ian is willing, and open, to admitting that he loves the hell out of Michaela too. For the rest of his life, no matter how Mickey chooses to display his heart, Ian will be there supporting him through every form. 

When he feels Mickey’s hand wiping at his cheeks against his chest, he reaches into his safe haven, finding his chin and guiding him out into the cold air. A grumpy, “fuck,” protest, not wanting to be extracted from his fortress just yet.

But Ian smiles at the sight of him. Glossy eyed and pink cheeked. He knows Mickey hates winter, but fuck it looks good on him. Tilting his face up until it’s at the perfect angle to lean into that mouth. That perfect sassy, dirty, pretty-lipped mouth. He lingers. Right there, gently pressing his own lips into Mickey’s, taking a long moment to feel the warmth of his flesh. Not parting his lips until Mickey does. Letting him take the lead in this tender, loving dance of lips and tongues. Letting the butterflies flap hard in his chest, rising from his stomach and into his throat. Letting his head blur the background away into nothingness, allowing Mickey to invade his every sense. Not noticing when the crowd starts counting down to the New Year. Only noticing the heat and moisture of Mickey’s mouth. The sweet taste of it. The delicate exploration of his own mouth. Feeling his hand sliding across his jaw, landing and staying on his cheek as he draws him further into this moment and away from this Earth. Absolutely taking control of Ian’s every reaction, and Ian doesn’t mind it. He knows with every fiber in his being that the control is safe there in Mickey’s FUCK U-UP hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the New Year and beyond...


	38. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash forward...

Home

 

Ian enters the house quietly, setting his bag down on the hardwood floor entrance of the old house. Knowing where every single squeaky board is under foot and avoiding them. The dim light on in the entertainment room this early in the morning. The kids upstairs still asleep. 

He’s exhausted. This shift was a particularly rough one. He loves the job, he loves the rush, the thrill of running into a burning building. But it’s different now. The shifts are too long. Being away from home, from his husband and their children for days at a time. 

Sliding out of his boots, lining them up neatly on the rug before he steps through the entryway. Walking lightly as he enters the room with the original green carpeting. His eyes scan the baby grand. Lined with framed photos. Old yellowing photo of Nadiya’s gorgeous smile as she watches her two youngest children. Mickey leaning into Yev’s face on the same piano. One from a few years ago, a crumpled old Ms Bodnar sitting between Mickey and Mandy on the bench as they played Christmas carols, Mandy plucking at the kobza in her lap. There’s a photo Fiona took on Ian and Mickey’s wedding night, Mickey playing while Ian drapes himself over his shoulder, the whole damn Southside family behind them dancing and drinking the night away. And the latest, Ian’s favorite. Baby Amelia cradled in his arms beside Mickey on the bench, her older brothers Noah, Ethan and sister Charlotte dancing around the instrument while Yev sits on a stool beside them with his guitar in his lap. 

They agreed, they agreed over and over again, that they’d adopt two kids. Two was enough. But then their adoption agent informed them of a set of four siblings that had just been orphaned. They were six, four, two and infant. He wasn’t sure whose heart started bleeding faster, his or Mickey’s. Going from a teenage boy living part-time under their roof to a full-time brood of four at different stages of childhood has been quite an adjustment to say the least. Fuck, is Ian lucky to have Mickey here. His level of patience for the kids is astounding. Something Ian didn’t fully expect, but has been pleasantly surprised by. He knew fatherhood looked good on Mick, but holy fuck he didn’t know it could look this damn good.

His gaze follows the carpet over to Mickey’s stockinged feet, ankles crossed. Pajama pants, knees open, half-tipped back in the glider rocking chair of Ms Bodnar’s. Bare chested, a sleeping baby resting peacefully against his heart. Chubby cheek smashed up against his chest. He was resistant when Ian mentioned the bare skin bonding that some colicky babies seem to respond to. But after trying basically everything else he could possibly think of and everything else he read, he finally tried it. Letting baby Amelia sleep soundly against his body heat, listening to the slow steady rhythm of his heart, her little hand half-fisted against his sternum. And now that she’s nearly ten months old, this is just their go-to position for sleeping off a cold, or a tooth-ache, or maybe even a nightmare.

His eyes closed, slow deep breathing of a sleeping man. A man who sleeps soundly, no longer keeping one eye open to watch for someone to come busting through the door, no longer keeping his ears finely tuned for the sound of drunken heavy footsteps in the hallway. 

A man who has a house full of children. A room full of instruments. A career he loves producing records. A home complete with a little old lady who’s mind is sharp as ever though her tiny body is withering away on her. They moved in with her about five years ago, she was too frail to take care of the place on her own and Mickey couldn’t handle the idea of putting her in a nursing home. They took over the financial aspects of the house immediately, put on an addition when they started the adoption process. And old Ms Bodnar just keeps getting older and smaller, but never dulling. 

As though his eyes lingering on Mickey’s lips reached out and physically touched him, his crystal clear blue eyes appear from under his lids. Focusing immediately on his husband’s face, a gentle smile rising. His lips part to speak, but Ian covers his mouth with his own before any words can come out. Lingering there tenderly, breathing in the scent of him, drinking in the presence of him to override any lingering emotions from the job. Relaxing into his lips and his heat until the first set of feet hit the floor above them. Kickstarting their day with whispered, ‘I love you’s, as the echos of ‘Daddy’s home!’ filter down the stairs.  
It’s been years since Ian has found traces of glitter on his husband’s flesh. He doesn’t need it anymore. The morning sun starting to peer through the curtains catches the glitter in his eyes when he smiles. Lighting up that blue sparkling flame brilliantly, letting his soul shine through. There is nothing more gorgeous on this planet than the way that glitter sparkles and dances when his gaze shifts from Ian’s face to the children coming down the stairs all happiness and joy, with sleep-stained eyes and rumpled pajamas. And back to Ian as the children throw arms around his legs and waist, an easy smile rising on his favorite face. Throughout the years he’s seen every expression that face has to offer, but this one, this one right here, is the one he calls home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snip, snap, snout. This tale is all told out.
> 
> Might be the cheesiest ending for a Gallavich fic ever, but I liked it! It felt right for this piece.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading it! I loved writing them in a lighter hue, I loved picking them both up at a point where they were both broken down by life but not yet broken internally. It was really fun to give their relationship a sort of redo that felt lighter, but still had some hurdles to overcome. Thank you so much for the comments and support, positivity throughout this piece. I still find it mostly terrifying to share works, but you've eased my anxiety by sticking through to the end with me!
> 
> The next chapter is not a chapter - it is the lyrics to the song that half inspired the very first chapter that was originally going to be the end of it - but thank you to you supporters for pushing me to continue! It is also a start, or maybe a one-shot, or maybe just another hiccup in my brain that I needed to sort out. If you feel like reading it, just let me know at the end if it's something you'd care to explore with me!
> 
> Thanks again for your time invested in my Winter survival tactic! Kudos/comments appreciated :)


	39. Lyrics and a one-shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roller Derby Queen was the song that was stuck in my head when I saw an ad for RuPaul's Drag Race, and the first chapter is what happened in my mind shortly thereafter. 
> 
> A one-shot, or maybe more if you want it, for a divergence from season 9.

Gonna tell you a story that you won't believe  
But I fell in love last Friday evenin'  
With a girl I saw on a bar room TV screen  
Well I was just gettin' ready to get my hat  
When she caught my eye and I put it back  
And I ordered myself a couple o' more shots and beers  
The night (you know) that I fell in love with a Roller Derby Queen  
(Round 'n' round, oh round 'n' round)   
The meanest hunk o' woman  
That anybody ever seen  
Down in the arena  
She is a five foot six and two fifteen   
A bleached-blonde mama with a streak of mean  
She knew how to knuckle  
And she knew how to scuffle and fight  
And the roller derby program said  
That she were built like a 'fridgerator with a head  
The fans called her "Tuffy"  
But all her buddies called her "Spike"  
The night (you know) that I fell in love with a Roller Derby Queen  
(Round 'n' round, oh round 'n' round)   
The meanest hunk o' woman  
That anybody ever seen  
Down in the arena  
Round 'n' round, go round 'n' round   
Round 'n' round, go round 'n' round  
Round 'n' round, go round 'n' round  
Well I could not help it but to fall in love  
With this heavy-duty woman I been speakin' of  
Things looked kind of bad  
Until the day she skated into my life  
Well she might be nasty she might be fat  
But I never met a person who would tell her that  
She's my big blonde bomber  
My heavy handed Hackensack mama  
The night (you know) that I fell in love with a Roller Derby Queen  
(Round 'n' round, oh round 'n' round)   
The meanest hunk o' woman  
That anybody ever seen  
Down in the arena  
Round 'n' round, go round 'n' round  
Round 'n' round, go round 'n' round  
Round 'n' round, go round 'n' round  
Songwriters: Jim Croce  
Roller Derby Queen lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, BMG Rights Management

\----------

“I had a dream last night. I was running. Running down a trail in a forrest. The trees were bare. Empty naked branches scraping the cold grey January sky. Tearing through the clouds, like open gouges from a cat scratch. I was running. I could hear my breath in my ears. And the snow crunching beneath my feet. There was a crow. But otherwise I was alone. A black crow perched in the middle of the path. He was silent. Just watching me. But he had blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. And it should have been creepy. But it wasn’t. It was,” I take a deep breath of the late summer air, “it was comforting. To see those blue eyes again. After so long,” my voice trails off, no I won’t go there, “I was running. Towards the crow. And suddenly it disappeared. And I was alone. Suddenly so aware of how alone I was in the frozen wood. I looked up and saw the trees ripping the clouds apart, sun was shining through. So brilliant and bright. Burning my eyes when I looked back down at the snow. Like a trillion diamonds strewn across the forest floor. Catching the sun’s rays, dancing and sparkling. Throwing it back in my face harshly. I could barely see it was so bright. But I wanted to touch it. I wanted to touch the sun’s rays. The ones that were splashing across the ground at my feet. But every time I reached for them they went dark. They disappeared. Leaving me cold. Alone. I just kept running. The wind was starting to sting on my bare skin. A cold winter wind rising up from all around me. I was so cold. I could see my breath and I could feel the wind burning into me like needles on my skin. The sun was horribly bright but I just wanted to touch it. I just kept reaching out. And when I finally fell on my bare knees in the snow, I touched it. My hand. It was in the ray of sunshine. And it felt so blissfully warm. But then it started burning. I sat there with my hand in the sun, and I watched it burn. I watched it turn red. And blister. I started to scream. But no sound would come out. Nothing would come out.”

The silence would be defeating if not for the sound of our feet on the pavement. The sound of our breaths in the warm air, leaving our mouths in rhythmic huffs.

I start to wonder if he’s heard me. If he’s heard anything I’ve just said. I start to wonder if I’ve even said it. When finally his head turns towards me. Confusion in his eyes, but that serial killer smile he’s worn since he was a baby starts to rise. I know he wants to tell me to take my fucking meds. That I sound like a fucking weirdo. Instead he shrugs, “if you eat before bed you’re more likely to have weird dreams.”

And in Carl’s world it is that simple. 

I am a bare man running through a naked forrest covered in snow while I burn to death. And to Carl, that’s just a midnight snack.   
I laugh. I don’t know what else to do, “you’re probably right,” because Carl is the only one I can still talk to without being Monica. Carl is the only one who looks at me like I’m still Ian. And the only time I still find Ian is when we’re out for our morning jogs. I can be mostly alone in my head beside my brother who won’t verbally accuse me of being a delusional head case. 

I blink. I close my eyes, it’s no longer than a blink. I blink. But when I open my eyes I’m standing on the porch. 

I’m fifteen and I’m knocking. And my heart is in my throat. And I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe until his face appears. He pulls the door open, giving me an annoyed look. ‘It’s not a good time’. But ‘I didn’t know where else to go’. And it’s true. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t. But I didn’t know how to tell him, it wasn’t where, it wasn’t a place. It was never a destination. It was him. It was his face, it was the softening in his eyes. It was the feel of his eye contact. It was him. He was all I needed. And I didn’t know, I didn’t know at the time that it wasn’t just the warmth of his body around me and against me, it wasn’t the feel of his fingers when I wrapped mine around them and he let me. It was him. It was all of him. But I was fifteen. And I didn’t know where else to go.

I take a deep breath and watch as my hand rises to the brown wooden door. I hear it in my ears as I knock. But I don’t feel it against my knuckles. I see it as it opens. And I see it, what was I expecting? Was I truly expecting those blue eyes? Was I truly hoping that he was here, that he was still here? 

“Mickey’s in Mexico.”

“I’m not here to see Mickey,” but if I’m not here to see Mickey, then what the hell am I here for? Am I here to see this man? Really? Am I? What could I possibly have to say to this piece of shit? What could I possibly learn from this piece of shit that I couldn’t learn from anyone else in this neighborhood? Did I think he had the secrets to where Mickey is, did I think I could come here and just ask him where his fugitive son is? Did I think he knew? Like he talked to Mickey every Sunday night to check in on him?

And suddenly my stomach feels raw. The acid is sloshing around, forcing it’s way up my throat. I swallow. I swallow and force it down as he’s insulting me and trying to shut the door in my face. I swallow and force it down as he accuses me of trying to faggify people. I’d explain. I’d try to explain but then I hear him again. ‘You’re going to fuck the faggot out of this one’, and I stifle a gag, “how much time did you do in the pen?”

Really? You know no one else who’s been behind bars? Really? You know no one else you could ask these questions?

“Mouth and ass rapings, which you’d probably enjoy…”

‘You’re going to fuck the faggot out of this one’. 

“I did the raping. Milkoviches don’t bottom.”

‘Fuck the faggot out of this one’. 

I say something. I hear my voice, but I don’t know what I said. Choking down the rising vomit. Stifling the rising memories. The sound of his fists, the sound of his shouts, the sound of his pistol connecting with Mickey’s face. Mickey’s face. Mickey’s beautiful face as he sat beat and hurting on that couch. Mickey’s face as he stared at me while the Russian rode him. While she fucked the faggot out of him. While he bled and died in front of me. And all I could do was sit there with my knuckles against my lips and stare, and I couldn’t even hide the pity on my face. And he must have felt so…

“Okay, rapings, food, guards, I can handle that shit…”

“Anyone can handle that shit…”

Raping. Raping. Raping. It starts repeating. In my mind like a movie reel. Flashing like a movie reel. His face. HIs face. HIs beautiful face as he watched me. As he watched me watching him. Watching him being raped. Watching him being raped. Watching him being raped. 

‘Anyone can handle that shit’. Anyone. Anyone who’s never been through it. Anyone who’s never experienced it. Anyone who’s never been there. Anyone who’s never had that piece of them taken away, destroyed, broken and bleeding. Taken away. As I watched it happen in front of my very face. And I didn’t understand. I never understood.

“If I was you, I’d pack my shit and run.”

The door slams. I watch it slam. I stand here. I stand here and swallow the rising acid. How many times have I stood on this porch? Sharing a smoke with Mandy? Sharing a smoke with Mickey? How many times have I just pulled that front door open and gone in? How many times did I pull that door open to the life I wished for with the man I loved? And how many times was I too blind to see it? How many times did I run away from it?

“What did I do?” I hear myself whisper. I feel my body moving. Step by step. Down the stairs of the porch, “what did I do?”   
I stop moving under the L tracks. I lean my head back. I close my eyes. And I see him. I see him so clearly. He is the blue-eyed crow in my dreams. He is the one and only thing that will stay beside me in the darkness. ‘I can take care of him. Let me take care of him’. The pleading in his voice. Who was he talking to? Who was he talking to as I lay still and pained in his bed? Who was he pleading with? So desperate to keep me. 

I close my eyes. It was just a blink. It was no longer than a blink. When they open I’m lying in bed. In my bed. In my home. In my home with my family under the roof. This family that may as well be strangers to me. We’ve grown so far apart since Monica died. When is the last time I’ve spoken to Fiona? About anything real? None of this childish bullshit with the building, and the overly dramatic feud that I was too immature to put an end to even when she was willing. When is the last time I shared a beer with Lip? And we joked and talked like we used to? Debbie? Fuck, I’ve barely spoken to Debbie in ages. Liam? We pass each other in the hall, no differently than acquaintances on the street. 

‘What am I leaving behind? My family? You had my back more than they ever did’. But wasn’t I just standing on the porch in front of your monster, wasn’t I just standing there? And what did I say? What did I say about you? Did I make a joke? Did I really make a joke about you to your despicable and wretched father who did no more for you than break your back and smash your face into the dirt? Did I make a fucking joke? About you? About the only man I’ve ever loved. The only man who has ever loved me. The only person who still saw me. You saw me. You saw me through the disease. You kept me inside my own skin when I was trying so desperately to rip it off and throw myself into the fire. You, the one who lay down behind me when I was too broken to move, you, who never touched me because you knew it physically hurt, but you lay so close I could feel your body heat. I could hear you whisper so quietly, ‘I love you’. It was so quiet. So quiet but it was the only thing that kept me hanging on when everything else had fallen away. You were the hand in the darkness that just kept reaching out and taking hold of mine before I could suffocate.

My eyes close. It’s just a blink. It’s just long enough to be a blink. But in the darkness of my lids it starts rising. It all starts rising. All the images of what I’ve done to my life since leaving him at the border. Leaving him to cross into and unknown and uneasy world alone. Alone. Why? Because I was fucking terrified of being away from home. Away from my job, and my siblings, and my boyfriend. And the life that I was forcing myself to believe was happy. It was happy because it was stable. It was stable because it was boring and it was boring because none of it meant a fucking thing to me. Because the only thing, the only thing that could make me feel like I wanted to live and I wanted to enjoy living, the only thing was him. But fuck, going into the unknown with nothing but his hand in mine, with nothing but a few thousand dollars and a shitty fake ID. Fuck, I couldn’t just walk into that. I couldn’t just walk away from my stability because I loved him. Because I loved him. I loved him.

I love him. It may be the one and only thing I’ve told myself in the last few months that wasn’t a lie. 

In the darkness of my eyelids I see it. Every single face at the shelter becomes Mickey. And every single face at the shelter becomes Mandy. Every single one of those kids that I wanted to help, I wanted to help, I truly wanted to help; they become the two people on this Earth that I never could truly help. Two people on this Earth that I probably hurt more than anything. And what about that little blonde boy? That sweet, innocent little blonde boy with Mickey’s eyes? What about him? I could have killed him. I could have killed him on that road trip. 

My eyes are closed. They’ve been closed for far too long. And this time when they open, it all becomes so fucking clear. 

\--------

Want to?   
Fair warning: after watching the scene between Ian and Terry I realized that was the exact moment in the show that I truly stopped giving a shit about Ian's story. So if I continue with this, he's going to pack his shit and leave. It'll definitely take a couple harsher twists than Hunk Of Woman did, but of course, it'll eventually be a Gallavich ever after that does not end in prison.  
I've got a couple months left of winter, so I think I could spin this if you're interested. Let me know! And thanks again for reading!


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